


heart rise above

by onceuponamirror



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Multi, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, in which betty knows her way around a car, inspired by that damn bts pic, is that a wrench in your pocket or are you happy to see me, mechanic!AU, rating may change idk, tsss, update: the rating changed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2018-11-20 02:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 141,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11326323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamirror/pseuds/onceuponamirror
Summary: It wasn't an experiment with freedom borne of some Americana fantasy; rather, a road trip of purely logistical intentions. The plan was simple. Drive from Boston to Chicago for his sister's college graduation. That's it.Or, he drives a Ford Pickup Named Desire.





	1. Chapter 1

_I took my love, I took it down_  
_I climbed a mountain and I turned around_

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.

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**MAY**

He will later regret saying anything. And he will want to blame Archie, desperately. Will want to throw him out of his moving car—if the car was capable of moving at all.

But really, he will blame himself. He was the one who wanted to stop. He was the one who listened to Archie in the first place.

.

.

.

It starts innocuously enough; he and Archie are in his living room, frantically pressing away at their video game controllers, his large floor fan blowing cool air straight onto their flushed faces. It’s still May, but the heat came early to Boston this year, and with a vengeance.

However, Jughead is too broke to touch his A/C—or, too uncomfortable with the fact that he is _no longer_ too broke to justify the frugality that makes his life more difficult than it has to be—so he convinces himself the fan is satisfactory.

(He will also later blame the fan. And the heat. It made him delirious. Susceptible to terrible ideas.)

Archie cries out as Jughead’s character delivers a last, fateful blow. The screen turns to victory credits and the redhead throws down his controller. “Damn,” he mutters, as Jughead flashes him a smug grin and cracks his neck.

“I win. You’re buying the pizza,” Jughead grins, stretching his arms out.

“Yeah, yeah,” Archie mumbles, getting out his phone. While Archie places their delivery order, Jughead untangles himself from his fortress of pillows on the ground to check his own phone. JB has called and left a voicemail requesting that he bring an extra, empty suitcase because she _may_ or _may not_ have accumulated more clothes than she realized and _whoops!_

He sighs, and goes to his hall closet, where he pulls a duffle bag from the pile of things JB has already left in her wake. He’s not leaving for a few weeks, but he knows he’ll forget if he doesn’t put it right in front of himself. He throws it onto his bed to be dealt with later, and as he’s quietly closing the door behind him, he looks up and realizes Archie is watching him.

“What are you doing?” He asks, big eyebrows wrinkling. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Oh,” Jughead mumbles distractedly, pulling his beanie from his head and using it to fan himself. Why does he always wear this stupid wool hat? It’s 90 degrees out with what feels like 99.99% humidity and he’s starting to suspect he’s got a problem with masochism. “Remember that JB is graduating this year? I’m driving out to Chicago for the ceremony and to help her move back to Boston.”

“Wow,” Archie utters. “Is she really graduating college already? Damn bro, we’re getting old.”

“I’ve been old my whole life,” Jughead sighs wearily, hopping over the back of his couch to rejoin Archie, who is still on the floor in front of him. His friend grins up at him, and then, with a gasp, scuffles away to face Jughead head on.

“Dude, I’ve got a great idea,” he says, and _that’s_ the moment that Jughead will later curse as he bangs his head against his steering wheel. “Why don’t I come? We’ll do the road trip we always talked about. We’ll camp, or stay in weird towns, go to all the stupid kitschy stuff you love to hate—it’ll be hella fun. My mom has been bugging me about visiting her in Chicago anyway, and I’ll just fly back when you meet up with JB. Come on. It’ll be so fun.”

Jughead wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, watching the big floor fan chug along. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I was just planning on driving there and back.”

Archie raises an eyebrow. “What’s the point of two best friends both having freelance jobs if we don’t take spontaneous road trips?”

He throws his hands in the air. “I don’t know, why do we pay rent anywhere either? Why do we bother working on this mortal plane? Why don’t I astral project my manuscripts? Why don’t we work from the fucking moon?”

Archie looks exasperated. “Dude, what else are you gonna do for the next month? I know you’re in a writer’s block.”

Jughead responds with an annoyed glare; he is a _bit_ stuck on his latest novel, but he’s not about to admit it out loud. Somewhere in his inbox, an email from his editor is sitting and waiting, almost accusatorially, to be opened, and he’s doing his damn best not to think about it.

He settles for a shrug. “I will neither confirm nor deny.”

“Look, what’s that book you were obsessed with in high school? _On the Road Again,_ or something?”

“Just _On the Road,”_ Jughead corrects with a sigh. “And I’ve long shed my preoccupations with that kind of faux, ritualistic idea of American masculinity.”

Archie gives him the look he usually gets when said something beyond his vocabulary. “Whatever. My point is—you need it. I need it. I could write a few road songs. I bet it would help shake you out of your rut.”

He may have a point. Jughead stares at the fan again. He probably will need to get out of this swamp masquerading as an apartment if he’s going to get anywhere on his sequel, anyway, and he and Archie _have_ been making vague plans for a road trip since childhood…

“Once again, not confirming I am in any said rut,” Jughead intones in a bored voice, “but it doesn’t sound _completely_ terrible. I guess.”

 _Famous last words,_ he’ll realize.

.

.

.

They made plans to leave that weekend, deciding neither of them (read: Jughead) could come up with any reason not to start sooner than later. Archie had happily announced he would take care of the schedule, and although Jughead thought he maybe sounded too happy to be in charge of the itinerary, he also couldn’t muster up the energy to protest.

The trip starts innocently, and even with the potential for fun. They load up Jughead’s ancient mint green Ford truck with snacks and strap down their bags (and JB’s extra duffle) and first head to the cape for a couple of days at their friend Reggie’s beach house.

Reggie is more Archie’s friend than Jughead’s, but he still greets them both with open, drunken arms. “Bros!” He hollers, grabbing both of them in a crushing hug. He’s wearing a tank top that says _Y’ALL READY FOR THIS?_ and Jughead thinks plainly that he’s not, but returns the hug all the same. “Welcome, welcome, to Casa de Part _ay.”_

“Is that the formal Spanish translation?” Jughead mutters under his breath, but it goes unnoticed.

“Glad you two bachelors are here,” Reggie says cheerfully, “because Moose and Midge have been all coupley and it’s been fucking boring. Let’s shotgun a beer and head down to the water.”

Archie happily complies, although he shoots a worried look at Jughead beforehand. Jughead shakes his head and reaches for a Heineken of his own. He always appreciates the concern, but at twenty-six, he’s long been around enough casual drinking that it no longer makes him feel small and alone in a trailer park every time he sees someone with a beer.

After they polish off their drinks, Reggie leads them down to the sand, where Moose and Midge are waiting for them. Despite also being people that know Archie better than they know Jughead, they’re still friendly towards him.

But they’ve always reminded him of Archie’s popular friends in high school, so it almost makes him more uncomfortable than if they’d been outright rude. He tries to tell himself that he is a damn adult now and the cliquey social judgments that plagued his adolescence are behind him.

They all want to head into the water, while Jughead volunteers to watch the stuff. Archie shoots him a look, but Jughead repeatedly insists he wants to read and will join them later. He settles onto a beach chair, sheds down to his undershirt (and spares Archie a lecture on calling it a _wife-beater)_ and pulls his battered copy of _Howl_ out of his back pocket.

He’d meant what he’d said about Kerouac, but as far as Beat writers go, Allen Ginsberg had always spoken to him. He leafs through it, and tries to focus on the poems, but his mind is elsewhere and after a few moments on the same paragraph, he accepts he’s not going to get anywhere.

He presses it against his chest and sighs, watching Archie and his friends frolic amongst the waves.

Truthfully, he doesn’t want to swim. As a childhood fear that’s followed him all the way here, he _never_ wants to swim, but he’s definitely not a beach guy.

The water’s always a little too cold.

Sand just gets everywhere and stays everywhere for days.

Mostly though, the idea of swimming out so far you can’t touch the ground terrifies him, and not just on a metaphorical level. He has enough discomfort around pools, so he’s _definitely_ never gotten the point of getting thrashed around by five foot waves for fun.

But seeing the four of them leap and duck under the water, Jughead feels annoyingly like a teenager again, watching awkwardly from the sidelines. _You’re an adult. You don’t care._ He rubs his temples and closes his eyes, tugging on his hat until it covers his whole face.

About half an hour later, he snaps to attention when something hits him gently across the chest. He pulls the hat above his eyes and sees Reggie standing over him and toweling off his hair.

“Sup, Infinite Jester,” he says, and Jughead has to admit that joke is a little more than clever. “You’re getting a little red. Lube up.”

He realizes the object that had been dropped into his lap is a bottle of sunscreen. “Thanks, Reggie,” Jughead says slowly, still waiting to see if this is a trap; if the bottle is filled with actual lube or something worse. But with a concealed sniff, Jughead determines it benign and starts spreading it over his forearms and neck.

“No prob,” Reggie replies easily, joining him on the neighboring beach chair. “I’m nothing if not a damn perfect host. You having a good time?”

He gives his book a little shake. “Just catching up on some reading.”

Reggie fixes him with a studying look. “Speaking of, I liked your book, man,” he says, after a moment of thought.

This surprises Jughead immensely. Despite having known Reggie for years as one of Archie’s college friends, he realizes he doesn’t know much about him other than that he works in finance and was already rich anyway. “You read my book?”

If he didn’t know any better, he might say Reggie looks somewhat self-conscious, ruffling up his hair, still damp from the ocean. “Yeah. I’m not all bros and beer twenty-four-seven, Juggalo. It was good. I mean, fucking sad. But good. Archie says you’re working on the sequel?”

 _Trying to,_ he thinks bitterly. Would be, if he had any idea where to start. “Yeah,” he says instead.

“Nice. Well, when I read the first one I was like, mad depressed for a week after. So give the guy a happy ending this time,” Reggie instructs, closing his eyes and settling back into his chair. He twists his arms up to the sun, as if beckoning it towards him.

Jughead pulls his hat back over his eyes.

_A happy ending._

What a concept.

.

.

.

The next few days follow in a similar pattern: Reggie, Archie, and a fluctuating company of beautiful people having a rumpus, drunken time, while Jughead ruminates on the poor life decisions that led to him sitting alone by a bonfire and assuring himself that he’s beyond such hedonistic pursuits.

If this wasn’t such a common occurrence—following after Archie’s plans and finding himself wishing he hadn’t when it _always_ ends with him at the edge of a party, alone—he might actually be annoyed with his friend.

But he wonders if he’s lying to himself when he says that it doesn’t bother him. He and Archie don’t have as much in common as adults as they did as children, and Jughead sometimes speculates whether nostalgia alone is enough to keep their friendship going.

Not that they don’t still have things in common—they both like to write (if albeit in totally different forms), they both like video games…Jughead wracks his brain for an embarrassingly long moment before also deciding they have similar senses of humor.

Sort of. Archie likes  _his_ sense of humor, anyway, which is usually the thing that wards most people off.

But none of their differences mean shit, at the end of the day. Archie is like a brother to him, and so if that means he has to be a fringe element at the edge of a beach party for a night, so be it.

Besides, he’s always teetered at the edge of things his whole life. Teetered on the edge of childhood abandonment, on the edge of foster care, on the edge of his family’s addiction, on the edge of his peers, his schools, his life.

Looking in from the outside is an easy place to be; that’s what got him his _New York Times_ starred review, anyway.

So quite literally, no good will come of questioning his comfort zone, and that’s that.

 _That’s that,_ he repeats to himself, once more, for good measure. 

.

.

.

But once they hit the four-day mark, Jughead is itching to get back on the road, so they both pile back into the truck after long and surprisingly emotional bro hugs from a completely stoned Reggie.

The truck squeals a bit as he turns the ignition. “Did you hear that?” He asks Archie, though the engine is purring fine now.

Clearly also still a little stoned from Reggie’s wake-and-bake breakfast, Archie looks over at him, red eyed. “Hear what?”

“When you drove the car into town last night, did it make a weird noise?” Jughead presses.

“Nah,” Archie sighs, his head falling against the seat. He closes his eyes. “Man, I’m beat.”

“Good road trip, then,” Jughead says wryly. “Ready to go home to Boston?”

That gets Archie’s attention; he opens one bleary eye at him. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he responds firmly. “I’ve got a lot more planned for us.”

Jughead snorts. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy anyway. “Where to next?” Jughead asks, as they pull out of Reggie’s driveway and into the morning light.

“Not telling,” Archie replies, pulling up his phone map. “Take a left here.”

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.

.

It turns out that Archie has led them back across the state to something called the Basketball Hall of Fame, which Jughead couldn’t find more boring if he’d tried. Archie loves it, and spends the whole time wondering aloud if he’d chosen the wrong sport in high school. But Jughead can’t stand it much longer, and wanders off to find a place to read until Archie’s ready to go.

“Got you an ice cream cone, buddy,” Archie says soothingly, finding the bench Jughead has long since camped out on.

“Great, because I’m twelve,” he mutters, though he eats it anyway.

“Sorry, I know this place isn’t your cup of tea, but the next thing is for you. You’ll like it, promise, or I’ll buy you two dinners.”

“Here’s hoping I hate it, then,” Jughead says dryly, as they make for the car. It makes that weird sound again, but it’s gone in an instant, and the Ford roars to life, so Jughead doesn’t have time to dwell on it before Archie starts feeding him new directions.

When they cross the border into New York state, Jughead gets nervous, but Archie is practically bouncing in his seat with excitement, which appeases him a bit. But if it turns out to be the Football Hall of Fame or the Baseball Hall of Fame or, hell, even the Racquetball Hall of Fame, he swears he’s turning around and going straight back to Boston.

But they turn into a parking lot with a sign reads  _Welcome to the Motorcyclepedia Museum!_  and Jughead is awash with relief. Motorcycles. This might actually be good. 

They pay for their tickets and head on in; the experience is completely wacky, and just as kitschy as Archie promised it would be, but actually kind of cool. There are famous motorcycles from history, including one that road in the motorcade the day JFK was shot, and even some from movies, which he particularly geeks out over.

Granted, the bar was pretty low after Archie dragged him to a weekend long beach party of self-indulgence and then the fucking Basketball Hall of Fame, but Jughead has to it to him: this one was pretty fun.

Especially because Jughead always wanted a motorcycle, like his dad, and he’d even learned to ride and gotten as far as the special program certificate as required by the state of Massachusetts. He’d been all set to get one—but then life got in the way, as it does, and the motorcycle suddenly seemed like such a silly idea. He had responsibilities thrust upon him and he wasn’t gonna drop his sister off at school from the back of a bike. So he turned to the truck, and it hasn’t proved him wrong yet.

“Knew you’d like this place,” Archie grins as they head back towards the parking lot. Dusk is settling low over their heads. “So you’re buying dinner.”

“That was not the deal, so, no,” Jughead chuckles, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Alright, I propose we drive a little more, grab some grub, and then find a motel to crash for the night.”

“Sounds good, dude,” Archie agrees, pulling out his map. “Alright…we wanna get on 90, so we should take highway 87 up the state. Let’s head towards Hudson and stop there for food and beds. Midge told me about how cute it is up there and said we should check it out. Apparently she and Moose went antiquing there once.”

“Golly, Archie,” Jughead drawls, “I didn’t realize this was an elaborate excuse to go looking for the perfect shabby chic bedroom set of our dreams.”

“Shut up,” Archie laughs. “Just drive. It’s getting late and I’m a growing boy. Need to eat.”

“Hate to break it to you pal, but you’re twenty-six. Officially, you’re done growing,” Jughead says, as he puts the key in the ignition. It squeaks at him again, but once again starts without any other issue. He stares at his steering wheel. “Why does it keep doing that?”

“Dunno,” his friend yawns. “I’m sure it’s fine. Come on. Food. Archie hungry. Archie want to eat.”

“Ugh, don’t get all caveman on me. I’m hungry constantly and I still manage to use all my grammatical articles,” Jughead sighs, pulling out of the parking lot. The ride upstate is quiet and twinkling as the stars come out to greet them. Even on the road, the further upstate they get, the brighter the stars become.

However, also the further upstate they get, the hungrier Jughead gets. He realizes he hasn’t eaten much all day and, with an audible growl from his stomach, he decides he might not make it all the way to Hudson.

“What are you doing?” Archie asks, as Jughead starts to cross lanes towards an exit.

“Taking the first exit I see,” Jughead says grouchily, his appetite making him grumpy. “I’m suddenly starving.”

“Dude, it’s not far left to Hudson, just keep going,” Archie says.

But a bright neon sign is visible from the far right lane and Jughead gives a triumphant, “ _A-ha!_ A diner. I want a damn small-town-diner burger and I want it now. We’re going there.”

Shrugging, Archie doesn’t argue. That’s another thing that Jughead likes about his best friend: he’s as impulsive as he is go-with-the-flow. It sometimes makes for a disastrous combination of attitudes, as Archie tends to believe following the yen to make a ridiculously sudden 180 in his life will just “work out” but right now, Jughead appreciates the hell out of it, because _he_ would certainly never allow this without a fight. His stomach howls at him.

They pull off the highway and follow the massive neon sign, which just reads _Pop’s_ in bold red letters. Jughead might’ve expected some kind of truck stop diner, given it’s proximity to the road and the set of train cars ambling along a track behind the restaurant, but it seems quaintly  _doo-wop_  and almost straight out of time.

He and Archie throw a tarp over their bags in the bed of the truck and hustle inside. Soft, ambient music welcomes them and the crowd is mostly families and teenagers. It just might be a wholesome as it appears.

A round-faced man meets them at the door. “Two?” He asks amiably.

Jughead nods, taking in his surroundings. Something in his chest unlocks to the tune of a jukebox, and the soft red light falling gently over the restaurant sets him at a peace he didn’t know he was missing. It’s quiet. Safe. Calm. Everything a small town diner should be.

Something pokes his shoulder, and he realizes it’s Archie gesturing to follow after him to their table. He slides into his booth and heaves a deep sigh. “This looks good,” Archie says lightly, glancing over his menu.

 _Good doesn’t begin to cover it,_ Jughead thinks, gears whirring in his mind. The character in his first book would love a place like this. He’d been planning on setting the sequel in the same city as the first, but now he’s wondering if plopping the hero in a completely new setting is what the manuscript has been missing.

But then what? Move him for what reason? What is he looking for? What would be his motivation?

Jughead wishes he had his laptop, or a pen and paper at least, because this is the first burst of inspiration he’s had in months and he doesn’t want to lose it. But his computer is locked away in the car and he’s too hungry to properly focus anyway.

Their waitress appears at their table expectantly, and she’s very pretty, so Jughead waits for the inevitable drooling and clumsiness from Archie. True to form, the redhead tries to rest his elbow on his menu, but it slips under him and he practically hits his forehead on the table.

She watches with mirth. “Hi,” she says, in a cool, sophisticated voice. “I’m Veronica, and I’ll be your server tonight. Do you need another minute, or do you boys know what you want?”

Jughead thinks that Archie certainly does.

So with a sigh, he folds himself over his menu. “Double cheeseburger. The works. Fries. Pickles. Chips might be good too, actually. Vanilla milkshake. And a black coffee.”

Veronica raises an arched eyebrow. “That’s all for you? Or is there a tapeworm in there somewhere paying rent?”

Archie laughs loudly at her joke—a little too loudly, because she turns to him with a curious, amused look. But, Jughead notes, not an uninterested look either. He’s not surprised. This is the perpetual riddle of Archie Andrews—makes a total clumsy buffoon of himself, yet somehow still gets a date anyway.

He assumes it must have something to do with Archie’s looks and gym schedule, but it’s still always been a bit of a mystery to him. He knows he’s not completely without positive traits, but if _he_ slipped on his own menu and then guffawed loudly at a girl’s joke, she’d look at him like a piece of old gum under a shoe.

Archie ends up ordering a regular cheeseburger and just fries, and Veronica whisks away. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Archie gets a star struck look in his eye and says, “Man, I’m glad you picked this place.”

.

.

.

Dinner is good—quite good, actually—and surprisingly not too greasy given it’s a small town diner off the side of the highway. Jughead is bereft to go, but he orders a burger for the road, and it’ll have to do.

They load up into the truck; Archie has been sighing for the past ten minutes like some tortured Shakespearean lover. “Why didn’t I try to get her number?” He asks, for the third time.

Jughead puts the keys in the ignition. “Because we’re going to Chicago, you live in Boston, and she lives in some random small town in upstate New York. I’ll get you a fishing rod when we get home, okay bud?”

Looking over with a frown, Archie mutters, “Huh? Why would you do that?”

“So you can see how many fish there are in the sea,” Jughead explains with a drawl. Archie’s eyes turn back onto nothing. “It…was a joke. Never mind, you’re not even listening.”

Archie just sighs moonily again.

Jughead turns the keys, the now familiar squeaking and clicking sound greeting him. Only this time, it doesn’t immediately stop. In fact, it doesn’t stop at all.

Jughead curses, and tries to turn the keys again. The engine makes a terrible whirring sound and, to Jughead’s horror, smoke starts to rise from the hood of the truck. He immediately pulls the keys out of the ignition and stares, jaw-slacked, as Archie rushes out to open up the hood. He steps back and waves the smoke out of his face.

“This looks bad, Jug,” he coughs. “Uh, I think we're stuck.” 

Jughead bangs his forehead against the steering wheel. Hits it once, hits it twice. Repeats it again for good measure.

.

.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a new bughead fic from me! i know i shouldn't have posted it while still working on the winged beast, but, well, i'm almost done with that one and the muse bit me. this was inspired by that super adorable bts photo of betty and jughead working on his truck. not sure how long it'll be yet, but i'm thinking about 10 chapters. 
> 
> this story will be a lot lighter, though there will still be drama and UST and emotional reveals, of course (because it's me) but hopefully no killing off nice football players either. 
> 
> please give me a review and let me know what you thought of the first chapter! i promise betty is up next. :))))))


	2. Chapter 2

_I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills_  
_'Til the landslide brought it down_

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.

.

.

Sailors tell stories of calms before hurricanes. The wind is mild, friendly even, tickling the sails with soft breezes. The waves are coaxing and gentle against the hull of the ship. The sun is bright and strong. And then—chaos.

These are the kinds of thing Betty thinks about in moments like this. Two screaming—or laughing? She’s never totally sure—children running circles around her, her hands too greasy to try to grab one of them, her hair falling in her face, the garage telephone ringing shrilly, and she just needs it all to _stop._

“Kids!” She yells. “Guys, please! Aunt B needs to answer the phone!”

Her nephew jabs her forcefully in the knee. “No! Tag! You’re it!” Then her niece starts mimicking her brother and they both start chanting _tag! tag! tag!_

Trying to think of a reason why she ever agrees to babysit these two terrors, especially when she has to work, Betty tries to weave her way to the phone.

“Aunt B isn’t playing tag right now, Artie,” she sighs, quickly wiping her hands on the rag next to the big red telephone before making a grab for it. He pokes at her again just as she pulls the phone off the receiver. “Ow! _Arthur,_ stop. Cooper Garage, Betty speaking.”

“How are the Terrible Two’s, then?” It’s Veronica, sounding far too smug for someone who spoils the twins just as much anyone. She and the twins’ other aunt, Cheryl, have been broken up for over a year, but given that it was an amicable split (or, as amicable as two girls equally prone to dramatics can be—hence, the breakup), Veronica has remained a strong presence in the kids’ lives all the same.

“Terrible,” Betty breathes. She wipes her hand across her forehead. “What’s up?”

“So, I should cover my mom’s shifts more often,” Veronica chirps, and Betty feels an inkling of frustration that she practically sprinted across the garage for another one of Veronica’s social calls.

“Oh?” Betty asks, using the moment to brush some loose locks of hair off her sweaty skin. “And why’s that, Ronnie?”

“Boys,” is Veronica’s simple response. “Riverdale is absolutely devoid of them—or any that I haven’t test driven yet—but I always forget that Pop’s gets a surprising number of people off the highway. Girls too, I’m sure, but tonight there were these—”

“Well, I’m sure Pop appreciates that business,” Betty interrupts distractedly, watching her niece wander dangerously close to a tool bench. “Rose! Don’t touch that. You know you don’t play with Aunt B’s tools. Can you go grab your brother and go play in my office, please? You can put on the tv.”

Rose shoots her an embarrassed, apologetic smile and pulls her brother to the back of the garage and into her office.

“Sorry,” Betty declares to Veronica, rubbing her forehead. “They got into my cookie stash again. They’re angels until they touch sugar. You were saying? Boys?”

“It’s fine,” Veronica replies in her typically amused voice. “I should probably get to the point. I know you’re closing soon, but I’m actually calling because I have a truck smoking in the parking lot of Pop’s, and I figure they might need a tow and an allen wrench, or something.”

_Ah._

“Okay, don’t trust an allen wrench for anything other than IKEA. Hold on,” Betty chuckles, cradling the phone between her shoulder and neck to reach for her notepad. “Alright, I’m ready. Describe the situation for me.”

“Uh…it’s a truck. Looks kind of old. Actually a rather lovely sea foam color…might be the same palette Jil Sander used in her FW—”

Betty stops taking notes. “Veronica.”

“Right. Not relevant. Well, I saw these two guys get in the car, and after a few minutes, the whole engine started smoking. Seemed like maybe they were trying to get it started.” There’s a sound like blinds shuffling around, and she imagines Veronica is watching from the window. “One is waving smoke around like a maniac and the other has just been banging his head against his steering wheel for the past three minutes.”

Betty presses her lips together to suppress a giggle at the mental image. “It sounds like it overheated, but I won’t be able to diagnosis why without seeing it,” she concludes, glancing over her shoulder at the office window. “Hm. They probably need a tow to get it here, but I can’t leave the kids…or fit them, two guys, _and_ me in the truck. And Jason and Polly have that thing tonight, or I’d make them come get them.”

“Why don’t you bring the kids and leave them with me? I’ll take them home, or bring them over to the garage at the end of my shift. Pop’s got enough colored pencils to keep them occupied.”

“That might work,” Betty muses. “Okay, sounds like a plan. Tell those guys not to touch anything, and that a tow is coming.”

“Sí,” Veronica replies. “And call me when you’re done with them, if I don’t see you first. I wanna talk about the boys, because one is _trés_ cute. If they’re stuck here, I could be persuaded for a brief fling. Try to find out if he’s unattached, would you?”

“If it comes up naturally, sure,” Betty sighs, thinking that Veronica would definitely more romantic mileage out of Betty’s livelihood than she herself does. “Alright, it’ll take me a minute to wrangle these demons. See you soon. Thanks, V.”

“De nada. Besitos!”

They both hang up, and Betty presses another number into the buttons. She’d call Polly, but she’s famously bad at answering her phone. Jason picks up after a ring. “Hello? Is everything okay?” Her brother-in-law sounds frantic. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Breathe, Jason,” she laughs. “Everyone is fine. I just have a little dilemma here at the garage. I need to go pick up a car at Pop’s, but can’t fit the kids with everyone in the tow truck on the way back. I’m gonna leave them with Veronica at the diner, and she’ll bring them home if this ends up going too long. That alright?”

“Oh. Sure, Betty. Sorry again for leaving them with you last minute. Wh—oh, sorry, I have to go, the charity auction is starting. Thanks for checking. Have a good night!” And then he’s gone. Betty sighs, and wipes her hands on her blue work jumpsuit. If the boys are as cute as Veronica said, she briefly wonders if she should put on a bit more mascara. But there’s not really time, and she’s got a job to do anyway. So she settles for retying her ponytail and washing any leftover grease from her face.

“Kids!” She calls, and they come scrambling out of her office. “Who wants to go for a ride in the tow truck?”

After a resounding chorus of “We do! We do!” and gathering all their things into their little backpacks, she corrals them into the truck and sets off for Pop’s. Like everything in Riverdale, it’s not a long drive, but Rose and Artie are shoving at each other and it’s distracting for the whole ride.

She exhales. _She loves her family. She loves her family._

Pulling into the Pop’s parking lot, Betty immediately spots the purpose of her trip; a mint green Ford pickup is stalled in its spot, the remnants of smoke stacks lingering overhead. Veronica is leaning against a nearby car in a yellow Pop’s uniform, talking to a well-built redheaded guy, and there’s another person still sitting in the driver’s seat, his head slumped against the wheel.

 _At least he’s stopped hitting his head against it,_ Betty thinks. She parks right in front of him, so it’ll be easy to hook up later on.

She and the kids pile out of the tow truck, and they immediately race over to Veronica, who scoops up Rose in her arms. With the kids’ bright red hair next to the stranger’s own, they could be a little family themselves. She shakes her head and marches over to the Ford.

“Hi there!” She says, knocking lightly against the metal door frame. “Heard you needed a hand.”

The guy looks up, eyes narrowed. He has dark hair stuffed under a gray beanie, a handsome, angled face and a smattering of attractive freckles and moles. _This must be the cute one,_ Betty thinks, though Veronica seems happily preoccupied with the other guy.

“So it would seem,” he says, after a long moment of sizing her up. “You the mechanic we were promised?”

If he’s going to be one of those guys who underestimates a blonde woman under the hood of a car, he doesn’t show it. “Yep,” she says brightly. “Mind if I take a look at what I’m working with?”

With an incredibly burdened sigh, he slips out of the driver’s seat. “Let’s get this over with,” he mutters darkly behind her. He doesn’t seem to be in the best mood, though it’s not like she can blame him. Then again, she rarely comes across a customer happy to get their car ripped apart to be fixed, so she’s used to the attitude.

“So is the truck yours? Wow, is this a F150 ‘76? Haven’t seen one of those in a while,” she says, trying to clear the air.

“’77,” He corrects, a bit defensively, though she’s not sure why. He shifts from one foot to another, looking uncomfortable. “She’s not much, but she’s mine. A dependable old girl. Usually.”

“She’s a beaut,” Betty assures him. Veronica was right; the color is very nice. She flashes him an excited and secretive kind of smile that he clearly looks like has no idea what to do with. “I always love the diagnosis period.”

She sticks her head under the popped hood. She makes a lot of _hm's_ , and _ah's_ , and _oh's_ under her breath as she digs around the engine. There’s almost no compressor left on one of his cylinders, which is probably the source of the breakdown. It’s been almost fried completely through, but otherwise, the engine is in pretty good shape, though there are certainly a couple of dark spots on its horizon.

“You’ve taken pretty good care of this car,” she says, briefly poking her head around the hood.

The guy clears his throat, looking slightly pained. “Uh, that was mostly my dad. This was his truck and I think he kept fiddling with it when I wasn’t looking. But probably hasn’t for…a while. I haven’t done much more than change the oil every now and then.”

Betty hums and turns back to the engine. “Well, he’s done a good job.” Then she straightens, and wipes her hands on the rag that hangs from her belt loop. “So are you a good news first, bad news second, kind of guy? Or a—”

“I’m a bad news first, _more_ bad news inevitably second kind of guy,” he says wanly. “So level with me. How bad?”

“Honestly, it’s not!” She says quickly, though he looks suspicious. He passes a fleeting glance over at his friend, but he and Veronica are still talking a few cars away. The kids are running around them. “Really. You’ve got no compression left on one of your cylinders, which is easy to fix. And your truck has got great bones. But…the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.”

He squints at her. “Are you making an Aristotle joke?”

“A bad one,” she sighs, smile fading. “Basically, I don’t have parts for a truck this old on hand right now. I just used up my last one a few days ago. And we’re the only garage in town. Now, I can order them, and they really shouldn’t take too long, but it could be a week before they arrive. Maybe sooner if my guy in Hudson hasn’t left for vacation yet. Once I get the part it’ll be done in a couple days. But…”

“But?”

Betty sighs. “But I don't know how far you’re planning on driving this car.”

He blinks. “We came from Boston, heading to Chicago and then back. Why?”

“I was worried you guys were on a road trip,” she says under her breath. “I'm not totally sure the truck can make it back from Chicago. It might, it definitely might, but you've got a couple of weak spots all over your engine that could cause another breakdown, at which point the fire in your engine might burn through what's left here. Just a professional observation.”

The guy stares longingly at his truck. Something is working across his face.

“Some people might cut their losses here,” she wagers, taking a stab at what he’s thinking. He looks up sharply. “Might say that sinking money into a truck a over decade older than them is a waste.”

He doesn’t correct her, so Betty assumes she’s not far off. “But like I said, this truck has really great bones. It was built well before planned obsolescence, and all that. So I could do a quick fix of your compressor issue here and send you off, but honestly, your head gasket and one of your valves aren’t long for this world either. If I rebuilt about half your engine, it would run flawlessly for probably another ten years.”

The guy stares at her. “Don’t mechanics have a reputation for saying stuff just like that, to get you to spend more money?”

“Yes,” Betty agrees. “We do. But I know what I’m talking about. You can trust me.”

“That’s definitely what someone I couldn’t trust would say,” he murmurs apprehensively, running his tongue over his teeth. He blinks over at Pop’s, a sort of wistful look warring over his features. “I’m not saying yes, for the record. But let’s say, _theoretically,_ I’m interested in my truck running for another ten years. Just how long would rebuilding an engine take?”

“Well, couple weeks, if I get the compressor within that window. I’ve got most of the things I’d need for the engine already. But I'd be able to get started right away.”

“So we’re talking, full picture, about three weeks,” he summarizes flatly. He appears thoughtful, rubbing his hand against his jaw. “That’s cutting it a little close. I _have_ to be in Chicago at the end of the month. And what the hell would we do for three weeks in some podunk farm town?”

Betty bristles; she’s not sure he meant to say that last part loud enough for her to hear it, but she sure as hell did.

“I’m sorry your truck broke down here, but I can assure you we have all the amenities of modern times here in Riverdale. Flushing water, even internet,” she says, in a perky voice that she knows belies her annoyance.

With the long day she’s had chasing two six year olds all over her garage and just the mounting exhaustion of the past year, she’s not in the mood to humor the snobbery of a stranger. And, maybe, just maybe, if she’s being honest with herself, she doesn’t disagree with him and it strikes a damn chord.

There _isn’t_ much to do in Riverdale, a fact she’s been musing over her whole life. But it’s not like she has the option to leave, so she’s not really interested in sympathizing with his anguish over a three-week pit stop.

He seems to realize his mistake, as his ears redden. She adds pointedly, “We’re also on the MetroNorth line. So you can go down to New York City while I fix her up. Or you can head up the Hudson Valley. You’re not married to staying here.”

He looks embarrassed beyond his depth, but doesn’t apologize. He nibbles on his lips instead. “Yeah, okay. How much are we talking?”

She puts her hands on her hips and spares the engine another sigh. “Parts…hm, you don’t need everything…the head gasket is gonna run it up…compressors are about 120… So I’d say about 700 for all the parts. Labor for this kind of work is about 1500. I’ll bundle it and do it all for 2 grand.”

He pulls his hat from his head for the sole purpose of running his hands through his hair. She has a moment to appreciate his thick, dark curls before the hat is forcefully shoved back on. He looks frustrated, or maybe anguished, or maybe on the verge of a total mental breakdown. Or maybe all of the above.

He crosses his arms. “That seems low. What’s the catch?”

“It is low,” Betty exhales, half-forgiving him for his offense despite herself. She knows it’s not what her father would’ve done—but it’s her garage now. She can run it how she wants, including into the ground. Still, one of these days, she’d love to learn how to hold a grudge. “No catch. You just seem like you’re in a bit of a bind.”

He stares at her like she’s just touched down to Earth on a spaceship. Then, he shakes his head to clear his shocked expression, and thrusts his hand out. “Deal.”

She shakes his hand, and there’s a brief, but startling, moment where her skin sparks against his. It might just be static electricity, but he seems to notice it too, because he quickly pulls his hand away.

“Thanks, Betty,” he says quietly, much to her surprise. At her look, he gestures to the embroidered nametag over her heart. She glances down at it, having forgotten it was there. Forgot she was wearing this greasy, disgusting jumpsuit in the first place. “I’m Jughead, by the way. And no, that’s not the name on my driver’s license, which I guess you’ll see when I fill out whatever forms, so please just…call me Jughead.”

She raises an eyebrow, but it’s 2017 and she goes by _Betty,_ so she’s not about to judge. “Gotcha. Okay, well I’m gonna load up your Ford to the tow. You’re my last call of the day, so how about I drop you at the local hotel and you can come by tomorrow to fill out the paperwork?”

Jughead opens his mouth, but his friend, Veronica, and the kids are making their way towards them and he promptly clams up.

“They’ve reminded me I promised them pie about fifty times now, so we’re going to head on in so I can deliver on that. A Lodge always keeps her word,” Veronica says, tossing her silky black hair over her shoulder.

Betty rolls her eyes, dropping into a squat so she’s eye-level with the twins. “Fine, but I’m not taking them back after you’ve pumped them with more sugar. Okay kiddos, say goodbye to me!”

“Bye!” They say in cheery unison, running into her open arms. They give her quick hugs and then dash into the diner, with Veronica crossing across the parking lot after them. She passes them a brief, delicate wave of her fingers and then disappears through Pop’s door.

Jughead’s friend stares after her like she’s water and he’s the desert. She isn’t surprised. Veronica tends to have that effect, even draped in mustard yellow polyester. She’s always admired that about her friend, though Betty will have to double check which one Ronnie thinks is the cute one, because otherwise there might be tension on the horizon between the two boys.

But then, Betty realizes that Jughead hasn’t even spared Veronica a passing glance. Instead, he’s staring at his truck. He seems to sense her eyes on him, because then he looks her way, his face unreadable. 

“So what’s happening?” The redhead asks, forcing his gaze away. “Did you get it fixed?”

“As if it’d be that simple, Archie,” Jughead sighs. “No, we’re definitely stuck here. Or, the truck is. For a couple weeks, while Betty here licks the wounds we’ve inflicted.”

His friend, Archie, seems to realize Betty is here for the first time. He hastily makes his introductions and then turns back to Jughead. “A couple of _weeks?_ Aw, man. I had all these plans for our road trip.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Jughead says, a bit tersely. “If you’d given me any time to prepare, I might’ve had the truck checked out before we left. Instead she didn’t even make it 400 miles.”

Archie frowns. “I’m sorry, dude, I just—”

But Jughead cuts him off with a noisy exhale, then shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m tired. Let’s just crash and figure it out in the morning.”

Betty slips away and starts unhooking her tow chains, deciding the two friends might need a moment to work it out. She’s a mechanic, but she often feels more like a bartender in a seedy TV procedural; the type of arguments she overhears picking people up from the side of the road could fill a book.

Archie and Jughead don’t seem as willing to fight, though there’s still clearly a bit of tension as she snaps the hood down and latches the Ford to her tow truck. While she’s fiddling under the carriage of Jughead’s truck, she overhears the last bit of their conversation.

“…just saying it might not be the _worst_ place to stay for a little while,” Archie is murmuring wistfully, and Betty can imagine he’s staring after Veronica in the diner.

“I guess not,” Jughead replies, after a long, thoughtful moment. She can’t see his face, but there’s something markedly hidden in his voice. She inhales, unsure of the sudden prickling on her skin. “I guess not.”

.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, all of this mechanic stuff is what i've figured out through google so if i'm wrong on any of this, just call me out and i'll fix it. also, this is very AU, if you couldn't yet tell. 
> 
> and so we meet mechanic!betty! also, i've been really touched by the excited responses this fic has thus far gotten; you don't know what it means! it's always scary writing for a new fandom, and although this is my second bughead fic, it still is a little nerve wracking, so pretty pretty please drop me a review and tell me what you thought! 
> 
> reviews keep me going through the cold harsh winter!!


	3. Chapter 3

_Oh, mirror in the sky_  
_What is love?_

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.

He and Archie settle in next to each other as the tow truck roars to life. The Barbie Grease Monkey behind the wheel flashes them a bright smile once they're buckled in and starts to turn out of the diner parking lot.

“So the hotel is actually really close by,” she says conversationally. “Riverdale is a good town to walk in.”

“Great, considering we don’t have any other options,” Jughead grumbles. He fidgets next to her, hyper aware of his knee bouncing dangerously close to her own. How the hell did he get stuck in the middle seat?

He thinks he hears Betty inhale sharply, but the rumbling of the truck masks it and he’s not sure. Regardless, he’s definitely pushed her buttons already. And normally he wouldn’t care, but given she went through the trouble to give him a good deal and what he suspects is a rush job, he feels a bit bad about his attitude. It’s an unfamiliar emotion.

(Though, speaking of the unfamiliar, he’s still stuck on figuring out why a perfect stranger would be so plainly altruistic.)

A few minutes later, they pull into a little motel that exudes the same wholesome nuclear family vacation atmosphere as the diner. It’s inexplicably called the Flamingo Inn, but for what purpose, he has no idea, as there isn’t a palm tree or even a lawn flamingo in sight.

Betty cuts the engine and looks over at them. She pulls a business card from her breast pocket and a pen from the truck console and flips it over, scribbling a phone number on the back. “Here’s the garage number and my personal one, in case you need anything. It’s mostly just me at the garage right now so I’m there a lot, but on the off chance I’m not around, you can always try my cell. I open at seven, sometimes a little earlier.”

She passes it to Jughead, and he takes it with nimble fingers. Last time he’d touched her, he’d gotten a bit of a static shock, and he still isn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“I’ll come by tomorrow morning to fill out the paperwork. Have a good night. Thanks,” he sighs, grabbing his bag and following Archie out of the tow truck. Betty waves at them from behind the wheel, and then disappears back onto the road. He stares after the Ford jangling off the back until it’s out of sight.

Archie nudges him in the ribs. “Dude, she’s totally into you.”

Besides the fact that he’s confident that he’s offended her twice over already, instincts tell him that’s highly unlikely. History would confirm. Jughead scoffs and readjusts his duffel over his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m a real catch. A drifter with a defunct truck and freshly out two grand.”

“She gave you her _personal_ number,” Archie insists knowingly as they head towards the inn.

“Because I’m _paying her_ to fix my truck,” Jughead replies, rolling his eyes. “You think every conversation with anyone of the female persuasion is a veiled flirtation. But, my man, a girl like that does not go for a guy like me.”

“A girl like that? So _you_ like her.” Archie grins, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Jesus Christ, Arch.” Jughead exhales noisily. “Just because I can acknowledge that she’s pretty and it’s cool that she knows her shit doesn’t mean I’m out shopping for diamonds.”

“I didn’t say anything about diamonds,” Archie laughs. “We’re stuck here for a few weeks. What's wrong with a hookup?”

Jughead doesn’t have anything to say to that, partially because he doesn’t feel like defending himself against their polar perspectives on relationships once again. While he wouldn’t be so disloyal as to call out Archie’s unsustainable dating habits to his face, it’s not the first time he’s silently reflected on the trouble it causes. More trouble than it’s worth, in Jughead’s opinion.

“Well, _I’m_ going to get Veronica’s number, if we’re sticking around,” Archie says after a long moment, without much tactful dodging of implication. “Here for a good time, not a long time.”

“Ugh, which of Reggie’s tank tops did you steal that slogan from?” Jughead mutters, approaching the front desk. The benefit of a small town motel is how cheap it is, and they can afford their own rooms. He’s thankful he won’t have to spend the next three weeks trying to wax poetic over the cavemen snores of his best friend.

That is, if he’s actually able to get any writing done.

He and Archie bid each other goodnight, and then he throws his bag down on his bed. He flops along next to it a moment later, bouncing slightly on the springy mattress. He falls backwards and scrubs his hand over his face, the last hour of his life catching up to him.

He stares at the ceiling and tries not to think about his bank account.

Despite blaming his habit of penny-pinching his way through life for this current problem (too cheap for A/C, too cheap to get the truck checked out anytime recently) he’s also grateful for it in this moment, because it means he’s got the flexibility to cover the truck repairs—even if it feels like he’s signed a death certificate for his savings.

But he knows it’s the deep-set irrationality of a kid raised on food stamps, and tries to tell himself that he had a good year for royalties, and he’ll be okay.

 _And_ Betty gave him a deal. Maybe it was just out of pity, or maybe she’d actually overpriced the estimate in order to seem like she was being generous. History tells him that, nine times out of ten, people are swindlers and liars—and yet, she turned her big green eyes on him and the next thing he knew, he was agreeing to half a new engine.

 _Betty._ He hears Archie’s teasing in his thoughts again and tries to force it away. He’d meant what he said—he’s not blind, she _is_ pretty, and she did seem genuinely nice and, rarer still, just genuinely genuine.

 _And sharp,_ he adds thoughtfully. _She definitely knows what she’s talking about. And that little streak of grease above her eyebrow was cute._

He catches himself. What is he _doing?_ Who is he, Archie? “Snap out of it, you idiot,” he mutters to himself. He’s not here for a fling, whatever his friend might say.

He muses that also it’s a big leap to presume a girl as cool and pretty as her is single, and anyway, there were two small children with a resemblance running circles around her. What if she’s married and takes off her ring while she works? What if she’s a single mom? No one would pick _him_ as a father figure by choice, and anyway, he’s leaving town in over a fortnight, so he decides it’s best to assume Betty is beyond an option.

Besides, the only reason he agreed to stick around this hole in the wall of a town is because he’d had the first inspiration in months sitting in that diner. Hopefully, something is in the water here, and he’ll actually make some headway on his sequel.

Sighing, he decides he’s no longer got any professional wiggle room to avoid his editor and reaches for his laptop. He shoots off a reply to her notes on his first few chapters _(“Well written, JP, but where’s the poignancy from the first book? Why should we care? Needs more work.”)_ , telling her that he’s planning on scrapping what he has and moving the setting to a small town.

Once that’s done, Jughead looks around, unsure what to do with himself. It’s still early by his standards, and he feels wide awake. He glances at the clock, deciding to call his sister, knowing that the whole Jones family shares the same night-hawkish tendencies and that she’s probably still up.

She answers after a few rings. “Josh and JB’s house, JB speaking,” she says.

He almost drops the phone. “Who the fuck is Josh?”

Not that he’s trying to be some sort of overbearing Freudian figure, but their one rule is that they don’t keep secrets from each other. If JB has been dating someone long enough to move in within them, he’s downright offended that she hasn’t mentioned it.

“This is my iPhone, dumbass, I’m kidding,” his sister says in a mocking tone that he recognizes well. “Not a house phone. There’s no Josh. It’s just me and Chad.”

He pauses, unsure if she’s making another joke. “Still kidding,” she says, when she realizes he’s waiting for her. “Like I’d date a _Chad_.”

“I don’t think either of us are in any place to judge romantic partners based on their given names, _Forsythia_ ,” he points out.

JB groans loudly over the speaker. “Sorry, I suddenly went deaf and didn’t hear that,” she replies coolly. “Anyway, what’s up? Where are you guys right now? How’s the road trip going? How’s Archie? Did you remember to bring the extra duffel?”

“Uh, yep, I did, I brought it. Archie’s…good. We’re in upstate New York now,” he says slowly.

“You’re using your ‘JB, the bunny went to live at a farm’ voice.”

“The truck sort of…died on us,” he admits, chewing on his lip. “We’re stuck in East of Jesus for now. Don’t worry,” he adds quickly. “I’m not gonna miss your graduation. I’ll take a plane if I have to. I’ll even personally blackmail Richard Branson for his jet if it comes down to it.”

There’s a pause over the line. “You’re getting the truck fixed though, right?” Her voice sounds oddly small. “That was our family car.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, JB. It’s in good hands. I found a mechanic who knows her game.” He tosses his hat across the bed and runs a hand through his hair while releasing a long breath. “We had some good times in that truck as kids. I’m not giving up on it that easily.”

“You’re such a sucker,” she says fondly. “But we did have some really good times, didn’t we? Hey, remember when Hot Dog took a shit on the blanket Dad kept in the back of the truck?”

He chuckles. “Of all the memories, that’s the first one you bring up?”

“Memory, from the latin root _mem._ As in: to remember—as in: memorable,” JB replies.

“So you _did_ take my Latin dictionary.”

“Whatever, you’re getting it back when I move in. Anyway. I’m gonna try to actually get some sleep tonight. I’ve got a final tomorrow. Keep me posted, and call me when you’re Chicago bound. Love you.”

“Love you,” he echoes. “Good luck on your final,” he adds, but she’s already gone.

.

.

.

After getting off the phone with his sister, Jughead tosses restlessly for a few hours, mostly tortured by the childhood memories formed in the back of that truck. Their dad taking turns too wide, just to make them laugh as they swayed around in their seats. Camping out in the truck bed with their dog. The three of them driving JB to out Chicago to start college.

Of course, they haven’t all been together since.

With that thought, Jughead kicks off the sheets and angrily pulls on his pants, frustrated that he’d let his mind wander back there. JB is right; he is a sucker.

There are plenty of bad memories associated with that truck too. Taking the turns too wide was dangerous. They camped out in the truck the week the electricity was shut off and their dad tried to make it fun; convince them the stars were the only lights they needed.

And he hasn’t seen his father in over two years. It won’t do him any good to romanticize the past.

Besides, he’s _getting_ the damn thing fixed. What else does he fucking have to do to appease this self-tormenting part of his personality?

It’s barely sunrise, but Jughead decides he’s going to go for a walk to try to clear his head. He throws his laptop in his saddle bag at the last minute, in case he gets another random burst of inspiration. He regrets not going for his laptop earlier, when he’d had the bug to write. If he’d pushed himself, he might’ve found his character’s missing motivation.

He ends up wandering back to the diner, which is already open. However, up close he realizes that it’s actually a 24-hour establishment. “Oh, you’re gonna hate me,” he says gleefully to himself, breaking for the door.

The same round-faced man from last night is behind the counter cleaning milkshake glasses with a white rag. He waves. “Hey! I remember you. Chips, pickles, _and_ fries, right? Back for more?”

Jughead grins, and takes his pick of booths, as he’s quite literally the only person in the restaurant. It’s five in the morning, so he’s not shocked. A somehow familiar-looking and dark-haired older woman appears to take his order and once she’s gone with instructions for _pancakes_ , and as many as she can carry, he settles into his seat and stares out the window.

His eyes find the parking spot where his truck had met its maker and he thinks about how young JB had sounded when she thought it had been gone for good. It made him feel sixteen again, wrapping her up in his arms while she wailed and begged him once again to tell her why their mother didn’t come back.

Words he still doesn’t have die on his tongue.

He hadn’t realized the truck was important to her too. Betty promised it would run for another ten years with new parts, and while he does technically believe that’s what she thinks, he also just isn’t the type to put all his eggs in one basket. He should probably just try to learn how to fix the damn thing himself at some point.

Later, after he’s polished off as many pancakes as possible (and without a visitation from his muse), he decides there’s only so long he can sit twiddling his thumbs in the diner. Betty won’t open for another hour, but since he’s on foot, he might as well start to head over.

He pulls Betty’s business card from his pocket and enters the address into his phone. While he waits for it to load, he flips it over and stares at her number. He still thinks Archie is wrong about Betty’s intentions, but then again, his best friend does have a lot more experience in picking up women and he wonders if Archie understands something he doesn’t.

 _Not worth it,_ he thinks firmly, trying to dismiss the thought. _Occam's Razor. The answer is always simpler than it seems. She's just fixing my damn truck._ Google Maps hands him an arrow, and he distracts himself by following it.

The garage isn’t far from the diner, just over a mile, and the walk is surprisingly pleasant for a town the size of his neighborhood in Boston. He ambles his way towards the garage, unsure if he should prepare to be attacked by small children. Sure, it’s early morning in the middle of the week, but he’d been watching those two kids out of the corner of his eye last night, and they seem like the kind of perfect little hellions he has learned to avoid.

“Uh, hello?” He calls, when neither children nor Betty come into view. He’d expected to have to wait for her to open, but the doors are already rolled up and there’s soft music emanating across the garage, so he suspects Betty is in here somewhere.

“Be with you in a sec!” Her voice responds from—well, from somewhere, but Jughead has no idea. She sounds close by, but as he scans the garage, she’s nowhere in sight.

There’s a clanking of metal hitting the ground and the sound of wheels moving, and then Betty pops out from under the carriage of a nearby Volvo on a rolling dolly cart. She blinks up at him. “You’re here early.”

“So are you,” he counters, raising an eyebrow. It’s not even 6:30 yet.

“Well, birds and worms,” Betty sighs, pushing herself upright. He offers his hand to pull her up, which she takes. He doesn’t get the same static shock as before, but still has a moment to note the juxtaposition of calluses mixing with her soft skin.

Once she’s standing, she dusts off her uniform. She’s wearing the big blue jumpsuit again and Jughead briefly wonders what she looks like under it. “Let me just change out of this teletubbie suit and I’ll be with you in a jiffy. Do you mind waiting for me in my office? It’s in the back, over there.” She points to a room with large windows overlooking the garage.

He nods, and she scurries off. He makes his way over the office, lingering momentarily in the doorway, as he’s unsure whether or not he should stand outside it. But Betty had said to wait _in_ the office, so he crosses the threshold.

The room itself is somewhat small, or perhaps made to seem that way by all the framed photographs and children’s drawings plastered all over the wall. Jughead wanders over to her desk, where the collection only grows.

There’s one of her and Veronica, one of whom he assumes are Betty’s parents, and a large picture with what seems like all the redheads in the tri-state area. Betty stands next to the only other blonde woman in the photo, and he spots the children from last night, though they seem younger here.

“That’s my sister and the Weasley family she married into,” Betty says from the doorway. Jughead jumps back, realizing he’d been tracing a finger along the edge of the frame.

He looks at her, having gotten the answer to what Betty looks like under the uniform. She’s wearing blue jeans and a soft pink top that brings to mind the word _fluttery_ , even though it’s just a cotton long-sleeved t-shirt. He can’t help but peek down at her hands—no ring.

He glances back at the photo; the other blonde woman is wrapped against a tall, redheaded man. Maybe the kids aren’t Betty’s after all. He clears his throat.

“So the two changelings from last night…”

She laughs, and he finds he likes the sound. “My sister’s kids. I was babysitting. I love them, but—never mind, I’m sure you don’t care. Have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the pair of armchairs in the back of the office. He pulls one up to her desk while she fiddles with a cabinet drawer, thinking perhaps that he needs to work on his attitude. He probably _doesn’t_ care, but does she already think he’s that much of a dick?

But then she hands him a couple of forms and a pen, and he loses the train of thought as he sets to work. He puts them down as he finishes each one; he can feel her eyes on where he’s written his given name.

“Whatever you’re gonna say, please don’t,” he mutters, glancing up at the way she cranes her neck. She immediately looks embarrassed to have been caught. “It’s a dumb name.”

(Then again, he actively introduces himself as _Jughead_ , so he’s never been quite sure what his glitch is.)

“I don’t think it’s dumb,” Betty says kindly. “I think it’s nice that you’re the third.”

“Well, it dies with me, that’s for sure,” he sighs, putting down the last piece of paper. He looks up expectantly; she’s watching him with a curious expression that he doesn’t know quite how to place. He wonders if he has something on his face. Or maybe he already did something wrong with the paperwork. “Anything else?”

“Oh,” she says, taking his papers and passing him a new one. “Nope, these look good. Here’s your written estimate.”

He takes it from her, waiting for a moment, as it seems like she’d like to say something else. But then she doesn’t, so he takes it as his cue to leave.

Jughead pauses in the doorway and swivels back to her, a thought occurring to him. “Hey, this is probably a stupid, inappropriate question with an answer I already know, but…” Her eyebrows raise high on her forehead, and he finds himself inexplicably flushing with color. “I really don’t want to find myself in this situation again. This truck is important to me and I realized I should probably know how to take care of it. Would it be possible for me to pop by when you’re doing the repairs, so I can learn for myself? Or at least learn what to look for?”

Betty leans back in her chair, seemingly appraising him. “Sure,” she says softly, surprised. She stands up. “Put your bag back down. We’ll start now.”

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to write a lighter and purely cute fic honestly but angst finds its way. it wouldn't really be juggie if he weren't broody with a purpose!!
> 
> really really touched by the response this fic has had so far. pretty please with a cheryl on top (a joke i've definitely never made before) leave me a review and let me know what you thought!


	4. Chapter 4

_Can the child within my heart rise above?_

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Jughead stares at her, and then crosses the room to place his bag in the chair he’d been occupying. He seems to hesitate. “Should I…do I need anything?”

Betty presses her lips together, trying not to smile at how oddly confused he looks. “No. Might want to take off your jacket, though. I’ll grab you a jumpsuit. This work is dirty.”

She quickly turns around, cheeks blooming at the way that had come out. He doesn’t seem to notice, because he’s busying himself with shedding his jean jacket, but she hadn’t meant it to sound so coy.

He follows her to the supply closet, where she sifts through the available uniforms. She normally keeps her work suit in her office, so she’s forgotten her father’s uniform is still there, stuffed in the back. Hesitating as her eyes fall on his embroidered name, she sighs and skips forward a few hangers. Joaquin isn’t coming in today, so hopefully he won’t mind sharing his. Betty hands him the jumpsuit and he wordlessly slips into it.

“The truck is on spot three, if you wanna pop the hood. I’m just gonna change again,” she says, nodding to the other side of the garage. She hates wearing her clothes under her suit because she always overheats, but _maybe_ she’d grabbed a new pink shirt because she’d felt slightly embarrassed about the state of her appearance when she’d first met him.

Betty moves to the corner blind spot to change out of sight. As she pulls her top over her head, she remembers her promise to investigate the relationship status of whichever Veronica had dubbed the cute one, but she’s still not totally sure who that’s supposed to be. Archie is good-looking too, if albeit reminded her a bit uncomfortably of her ex-boyfriend in personality.

Veronica seemed to have zeroed in on the redhead, though Betty silently decides there’s something cuter about the perennial pout of Jughead, even if she can’t tell if he’s something of a jerk, or just someone in a bad position.

But if she asks Veronica if Jughead is the one she’s interested in, her friend will just assume Betty thinks he’s cute (she does) and she’ll never hear the end of it (ever). Veronica has been borderline obsessed with getting Betty “back out there” since breaking things off with Trev, but it’s been barely four months and she doesn’t understand the rush.

More than once, she’s wondered if it’s Veronica’s looming guilt for leaving her in Riverdale at the end of the summer, as if Betty wasn’t the one who _encouraged_ her to apply for law school.

Even if she does feel the imminence of her absence, eying it like some dark cloud thundering off over a far mountain, she still has Kevin and Joaquin, her sister, and even her mother or Cheryl on a good day. But by Veronica’s calculations, Betty would think she’s about to become some spinster recluse.

Then again, Betty has been at the garage since five to avoid her mother, so maybe she’s not too far off. Betty decides she’ll just cover her bases and find out about both guys for Ronnie. If she even can. She’s never been entirely good with subtlety, but she’ll have to find a way to sneak the question in.

When she steps out of her office, fully changed, Jughead is standing to the side of his truck, eying her rolling work cart. She bounces up to him and pulls the cart around to the hood.

“So this is all we need to get started, for now. Sorry, this is a little cluttered! I wasn’t expecting anyone. Here, can you move the book? Just put it anywhere with a clean surface.” She realizes that doesn’t give him a lot of options, but he hesitantly takes the thick book and quickly drops it on a storage shelf.

“Bit of light reading?” He jokes, walking back to her. His nose wriggles slightly.

“Sure, if you call five hundred pages of paperback dedicated to murder light,” Betty smirks, jerking her head towards the engine in a gesture that asks him to join her. He comes to stand next to her, though noticeably keeps his distance and she instantly feels silly for her putting on the new shirt earlier. He peers over her shoulder into the engine.

“So what am I looking at? Besides the obvious,” he adds, eyes narrowed as they dart over the machinery.

She points to the dark spot burned in on the left side. “See that there? That’s where your compressor fried. That’s why your car started smoking; the engine overheated when it failed. The first thing I’m gonna do is pull that out.”

Jughead nods once, eyes moving rapidly around the spot she’s hovering over. She gesticulates to the main engine. “And this is the head gasket. It basically locks everything in place. Without it—”

“I’m dead in the water,” he summarizes correctly. “So why do I need a new one?”

“Head gaskets are tricky, because they’re not always symptomatic. The whole point is that they’re sealed. So you have to look beyond what’s right in front of you. It takes a bit of detective work, but between you and me, that’s my favorite part. See your cylinder block?” She points to it.

“That’s why you think I need it replaced? That rust on the underside?” Betty gives an _mm-hm._ The rust is almost fully hidden, and not everyone would see it right away. “So it’s leaking,” Jughead guesses.

“You’re a fast learner,” she says truthfully, impressed. His eyes dart down and to the side as he shrugs.

“It’s the long-earned habit of a slacker,” he replies dismissively. “So you weren’t kidding about an engine being more than the sum of its parts. Wouldn’t have thought Aristotle would be this relevant to 20th century machinery. Huh. And you said something about a valve?”

“Right. It’s called that for a reason. The whole engine works like a heart.”

“That’s apt,” he says softly.

Betty glances over her shoulder at him, meeting his gaze. Something indiscernible but vaguely intense moves across his face. She takes a breath of air to steady the buzzing across her chest and looks back at the engine. “So that one, on the right? You can see where it’s thinning.”

Jughead leans in over the car, moving closer to her. “Yep,” he says, as she grabs a rag to wipe off as much of the carbon remnants from the compressor as she can. It’ll be a lot easier to remove if she can see what she’s doing.

“So, what’s in Chicago?” She asks, deciding to push an opening to investigate. She resolutely keeps her eyes on the engine, lest she burst into the same flames that claimed the compressor.

“The women in our lives,” Jughead says off-handedly. When she looks up, surprised, he adds, “Archie’s mom and my sister. Respectively.”

He grins down at her, and she realizes it might be the first time she’s actually seen him smile. She finds it suits him, especially for a guy who seems to wear a scowl like it’s a personal edict. “Why do you ask?”

She turns her gaze back down to her work and tries to keep her voice innocent. “I can’t make conversation?”

He pauses. “Yeah, sorry, of course. I’m kind of bad at…small talk. Uh, my little sister is graduating from Northwestern, hence the firm deadline. Archie just tagged along for the ride since his mom is in Chicago too. And we’ve been talking about a road trip on and off since high school, so we figured we might as well give it a shake. Although it ended up being a pretty pathetic attempt, obviously.”

She chuckles. It’s not exactly the firm answer she’d hoped to get for Veronica, but the derisive tone in Jughead’s voice when he’d talked about the women in their lives seemed to imply an equal shot. “You and Archie have known each other a while then?”

“Since we were nothing but mindless wee babes. We grew up in the same town, a bit outside of Boston.”

She glances over, feeling amused. “All those remarks about Riverdale and you’re from a suburb?”

Jughead turns bright red. “I didn’t mean it like that. Yesterday, I was just…you might’ve noticed I’m already not the cheeriest guy around. My beloved truck breaking down not five days into a road trip I hadn’t even planned for didn’t do wonders for my mood. Somehow.”

“I know, I could tell. You’re forgiven,” she says, with mock seriousness even though she means it. Privately, Betty decides that even if she weren’t her pitifully lenient self, she’d still let it go after seeing that anxious look in his eye.

“Thank you, I can now sleep easily once more,” he says, rolling his eyes, but he’s smiling again. Then he rubs at his neck. “So, do you like that book you’re reading?”

She blinks, surprised by the question and the suddenly informal pitch in his voice. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s been sitting on my shelf for a while, and I finally got to it last week.”

“That’s not much of an answer. What do you really think of it?” He asks, squinting at her.

Betty raises an eyebrow, but he’s got a hard look in his eye and she might as well be honest. “It is good. It’s lonely, but good.”

He wrinkles his brow. “What do you mean, lonely?”

She sighs, trying to think of a way to summarize her thoughts. “There’s a lot of open space in the writing. Like the main character is always waiting for something that doesn’t come. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

Jughead scratches at his temple. “No, it…does. That’s a very editorial thing to say.”

It’s Betty’s turn to look away. Considering that’s more or less what she went to school for, she takes it as a compliment.

“So you’d recommend it, then?” Jughead presses. He quickly adds, “I’m looking for something to kill the three weeks with. Was gonna try to find a book store.”

“Sure. I like that it’s not a vendetta. I like crime books, but they’re always about some guy whose wife was murdered in front of him. Sometimes that works, but I decided I’m kind of done with the fridged female character. But I’m only halfway through, and it’s a little lacking in diversity.”

He shifts against the hood, frowning. “Meaning?”

Betty shrugs and switches back to the engine, tools now in hand. She starts unloosening the screws of the burnt compressor. “I like that it’s really about this guy’s relationship with his family, especially his father, but there just isn’t much presence of women in the book.”

Jughead is silent next to her, but she can feel his eyes on her, so she twists back. “What?”

His tongue digs into his cheek thoughtfully and shakes his head. “You just didn’t strike me as a murder mystery kind of girl.”

She leans next to him against the truck. “What did I strike you as?” She asks, feeling unusually bold.

Here in Riverdale, she’s the same old Betty Cooper that she’s always been. Everyone knows her here, knows her to be kind and giving and good. Simple and plain. But Jughead is a stranger, he’ll be gone soon, and she wants to know what he sees.

His lips lift slightly, but his face betrays nothing. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

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He leaves not long after that, with some vague excuse about work (though she’s forgotten to ask what it is exactly that he does)—but then, much to her surprise, Jughead comes back the next day. In fact, he’s already there waiting when she pulls up the drive.

“Nice car,” he greets, with an impressed kind of look.

“It’s just advertising,” she laughs, shutting the door to her blue Chevy Bel Air. “If I didn’t drive something like this, people would think I wouldn’t know how to handle an old engine.”

“Fair point,” Jughead says. His eyes run over it, and then her. “Well, you’ve convinced me.”

She tries not to flush under his curious gaze, but seizes the opportunity to shield her face by grabbing her bag from the open window. When she turns back, he’s shifting on his feet. “Sorry to come back unannounced,” he says, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t sure how much of me you’d signed up for. I mean, whether or not I could shadow your work again today. I didn’t want to presume, and I thought about texting you first, but—”

“Jughead, really, it’s okay,” she insists, even though it’s a bit adorable watching him ramble. She gets out her keys and fiddles with the garage padlocks, smiling over at him. “I think it’s good that you want to learn. This truck isn’t getting younger, and maintenance is important on a car like this.”

And yesterday she found him to be good company, despite the recurring frown, so she genuinely doesn’t mind. Jughead looks relieved, and scurries over to help her push up the rolling overnight gates.

He hangs around a few feet behind her at first, but after she hands him an engine manual to study, a switch seems to flip between them. Or, she realizes, he just relaxes. Somewhere between Jughead’s scowl smoothing out and her cracking her father’s worst car joke—

_(“I try to think of a good car pun, but I’m always too exhausted.”_

_“That’s terrible.”_

_“Because of the exhaust pipe.”_

_“Yeah, I got that. Terrible.”)_

—Betty decides that Jughead is not only good company, but he’s also a surprisingly calming presence. She’s not sure if it’s his dry humor or his blunt honesty, but all he has to do is roll his eyes her way and stretch his long legs out against something as he makes some clever quip and she’s laughing again in a way she hasn’t laughed all year.

She’d gotten so used to the hours ticking by unaccompanied in this garage that she’d nearly forgotten what it was like to work alongside someone—even if Jughead isn’t actually much help. He doesn’t quite have the natural talent for mechanics, though still an observant, diligent student. He occasionally asks questions while leafing through the manual or leaning over her shoulder, but mostly seems content to watch her work.

After an afternoon of switching between his engine and the other cars she’s responsible for, she decides it’s time for a break. She stretches her arms high over her head. “I’m gonna make a pot of coffee, do you want some?” She asks, rolling her neck.

“A woman after my heart,” Jughead says, glancing at her over the top of the manual. Only his eyes are visible, but that’s enough to find herself blushing. Then, with a flash, it just reminds her that she forgot to update Veronica on what she’d gleaned yesterday.

“I’ll be right back,” she says.

“And I’ll be right here,” he replies, attention returning to the manual. He gets up and wanders over the truck, head turning between engine and book as he studies the two.

When she gets to her office, she settles into her desk to catch up on her work emails. She shoots off a request for the compressor she needs to her friend Adam—who runs a much bigger garage up in Hudson and is usually the one she turns to when she’s in a bit of a mechanic bind—and then responds to a thank you email from a satisfied customer. There are more things to sort through, but she owes Veronica a response first.

 ** _V, not 100% sure, but I think both boys are single,_** she texts.

Veronica’s reply comes almost instantly.

_C’est magnifique, isn’t it? One for me and one for you!_

Betty looks up from her phone and across the garage, where she can see Jughead sticking his head over the engine and muttering to himself. She turns back to her phone keyboard. _**Wait, what? Did you already know?**_

_Archie tracked me down yesterday and asked me out. Of course, we’re going to have to drive down to New Paltz for any kind of decent dinner. Candlelight should be present at all first dates._

So it _was_ Archie that Veronica was interested in. She tries to ignore the quickening of her heart. Then there’s a pause, the little ellipsis appearing ominously as Veronica begins to type.

_Wait, how do YOU know?_

**_Well, you left me with very vague instructions, V!_ **

_?? Did you think Archie’s friend was the cute one??_

It’s impossible for a text to gasp, but Veronica somehow manages it. Betty supposes there’s some kind of satisfaction in predicting exactly how this conversation would go but there’s not much.

**_I just asked him when he was at the garage yesterday because I wasn’t sure who you were interested in! that’s it!_ **

_He was hanging out at the garage with you?_

**_V, I’m fixing his truck, it’s not unreasonable for him to be here._ **

_Is he there again today?_

Shit. She shouldn’t have used the present tense. Betty definitely doesn’t want to tell her that. But Veronica doesn’t wait long for her not to answer, sending over a flurry of angel and heart emojis.

_B!!_

This is going just as badly as she’d expected it would, so she quickly puts her phone on silent and sets it face down on the desk. Exhaling, she decides to busy herself with making coffee. While it bubbles and percolates, she muses with what’s just transpired.

She’s not sure why she feels so defensive; probably because she wants her next relationship to be developed on her own terms and not pushed into it because her well-meaning but boundary-stricken friends are overly invested in her life.

Still—it wouldn’t be so crazy for her to like Jughead, would it?

Granted, she doesn’t know him very well, but she’s already admitted to herself that she finds him attractive. And he’s since apologized for his occasionally rude behavior, which was her main put off. And she’d been ready to break up with Trev long before actually summoning the courage, so it’s not like she’s not over him. If anything, she feels bad at how much she _is_ over him.

Really, there are only two problems with allowing a crush on Jughead to bloom. One, she finds him hard to read, and with the amount of literal space he keeps putting between them, she guesses he really is just here to learn about his truck. Two, he’s leaving. In three weeks. And she’ll never see him again after that.

And that is the bottom line. What if she ends up really liking him and all she’s left with is an empty garage and feeling more trapped here than ever? The risk just doesn’t seem worth it for a guy who, right after meeting her, said: “let’s get this over with."

She’s never been able to separate sex and feelings, so the last thing she needs is to put emotional stake in some rolling stone. So she decides right then and there that she won’t let her mind consider it any further.

As she’s making that vow to herself, she spots Kevin moving silently across the garage, clearly mindful of where he steps. Jughead is bent over the truck, his nose pressed against the manual she gave him and unaware of the sneaking figure creeping up behind him.

Betty comes out of her office to watch it unfold more closely. She’s unsure what Kevin is doing, but then he wraps his arms tightly around Jughead’s torso and says, “Surprise!”

Jughead freezes. “No shit,” he says, after a long pause. Kevin scrambles back.

“Oh. You’re not Joaquin.”

“Definitely not,” Jughead replies, turning around. His eyebrows are so high on his forehead they’re practically in his hairline.

“Joaquin isn’t working today, Kev,” Betty says sheepishly, coming around towards them. Jughead looks over at her. “He went up to Catskill to see his mom, remember?”

“Oh, damn. I forgot. He did say that,” Kevin sighs, scratching awkwardly behind his ear. “Sorry about that. I was just trying to surprise him with lunch. Trying to extend the honeymoon period and all that.” He lifts up a brown paper bag and shoves it at Jughead. “Here, you can have it. It’s the least I can do.”

“I was gonna say you’d have to buy me dinner first,” Jughead mutters, accepting the bag and peeking inside it. “But this’ll do.”

Kevin grins at Betty. “You didn’t tell me you hired a new guy. About time.” But he doesn’t give her a moment to reply, immediately offering Jughead his hand. “One day we’ll laugh about this. I’m Kevin.”

Jughead takes it, but exchanges a look with Betty, who jumps in. “Kev, this is Jughead. His truck broke down in Riverdale during a road trip. He just wanted to learn about fixing his engine, so that’s why he’s here.”

Still shaking Jughead’s hand, despite his mounting discomfort, Kevin stares at Betty with the kind of expression she’s learned to hate on him: one of mischievous curiosity. He looks back at Jughead and seems to realize he’s been forcing him to shake his hand for about half a minute.

He releases Jughead from his grip. “You don’t say. How long are you in town for?”

Jughead glances at Betty, who nods. “She said three weeks.”

Kevin cocks his neck, gears clearly working. “And what are you doing here again?”

But a ringing from across the garage saves either from answering. Betty raises a pausing finger in the air. “Uh—hold on. That’s my office phone,” she says, already cutting across the room. She catches it just before it goes out. “Cooper Garage, Betty speaking.”

“Hey, Betts, it’s Adam. Got your email—I do have the compressor part you need, but I’m out of town till next week. Will that work?”

She lets out a thankful breath. “That’ll be great, Adam. Lemme know when you’re back and I’ll pop up to Hudson. You’re a lifesaver!”

He chuckles across the line. “You’ll have to owe me,” he says, which is what he says every time. They make a bit more polite chatter (Adam always manages to make her look like a comparable introvert, somehow) and then Betty finds her goodbyes.

Kevin corners her as she’s coming out of her office. “So, were you planning on telling me about tall, dark, and broody?”

“There’s nothing to tell, Kev. Just because that’s your type doesn’t mean it’s mine,” Betty says, although she’s already decided that’s not strictly true. Still, she resists the strong urge to tell him to keep his voice down. “And he can’t wait to get out of here, trust me.”

“If you say so,” Kevin says, crossing his arms. “But for the record, he’s been staring over here the whole time we’ve been talking.”

They both turn and look over at Jughead, and his head immediately jerks upwards to the ceiling, like he’s found something very interesting up in the high beams. He sulks off, shoving his hands forcefully in his pockets.

Kevin grins back at her smugly. “Stop,” she sighs.

“I didn’t do anything,” he replies innocently.

“I can hear you thinking,” Betty mumbles. “Besides, he might’ve been looking at you.”

Kevin seems to consider this. “That’s fair. I did practically just grab his ass. And I am something of a Kennedy, so I wouldn’t really blame him.”

She raises a hand in the air as if to say _see?_  but the smile drops from his face, his lips pinching together. “I’m not trying to push Veronica’s agenda on you, to be clear. I’m just all a-flush with my own romance and I can’t help but want that for my best girl too.”

Betty smiles softly. “I know that. And I appreciate that. But if I’ve learned anything, my next relationship needs to have…meaning. I can’t get that from a guy with one foot out the door. And besides, honestly, I don’t think he’s interested. And I’m not—I’m just fixing his engine. So please, just—”

But Kevin doesn’t look satisfied. “I’m not just talking about dating though, Betty. I want you to be _happy_. I never see you anymore unless I come here and… If it were me, and _I’d_ just gotten out of a two year relationship that dramatically, and _I_ was spending all my time at work and _my_ dad had just—”

 _“Stop,”_ she repeats it again, but this time with force, closing her eyes briefly. “Kevin, please. I’m fine. I’ve just been busier with everything since Joaquin started classes. Which is _fine_ , Mr. Boyfriend, I’m not complaining, I’m really happy he wants his degree, but it just means I need to put in more hours for now.”

Kevin doesn’t look convinced and she hates the concern in his eyes. “But what happens when he and I go to Europe? What are you gonna do when it’s just you alone in this garage for two months?”

“I’ll hire someone,” she huffs, tightening her ponytail. “When he leaves.”

He puts up his hands. “Whatever you say. It’s your business. Literally. But can we at least make some plans to see each other outside of this grease trap? I mean, you should appreciate the depths of which I care for you and Joaquin to show up here in my best khakis.”

She smiles, finally relaxing. “Yes, definitely. How about tomorrow at Pop’s?” Kevin nods approvingly, and just then, Jughead wanders back over towards them. She turns to him, happy for a break from the ghost of the Spanish Inquisition inhabiting her friend. “Hey, Jughead! Good news! I heard back from my guy in Hudson and he has the part for me. I can go get it next week.”

“Oh, he’s definitely got a part for you,” Kevin mutters under his breath, much to Betty’s annoyance. She shoots him a warning glare, unsure how many times she has to insist Adam doesn’t think of her that way. Then again, most of her defenses had come about in the era of Trev, and she’s not sure how’ll they hold up with her single. She’s secretly suspected it’s not a completely unfounded theory.

Jughead glances between them. “Great,” he says finally. His voice is back to its usual flat tenor.

Kevin gives him one long, parting look before bidding them both farewell, saying he has to get back to the mayor’s office. They’re planning a 4th of July parade that has been one misstep after another and he is very needed, apparently.

Afterwards, she brings the coffee pot out to her work station and they settle in on folding chairs. Jughead guzzles down two cups of black coffee without seemingly taking a breath in between and amiably asks her about good examples of books that don’t fridge their female characters (a topic on which she has nothing but thoughts).

Later, once Betty can no longer excuse another extended break, she and Jughead fall back into their routines (her working, him hanging around observing). It’s quiet but comfortable, and she lets him pick the next music, even after he jokes that he’s a loyal metalhead.

Instead, he puts on  _The Beach Boys_ (he gives, “it’s the road trip playlist that never was,” as his excuse), and when _Wouldn’t It Be Nice_ comes on, she thinks simply that maybe _it_  would, without really aware of that means. 

He excuses himself to the restroom halfway through the song, but she’s spared from analyzing that as the red garage phone rings across the room.

“Cooper Garage, this is Betty,” she says into the receiver. Polly’s voice breaks across the line.

“Hi Betty! Sorry to bother you at work, but things are busy here so…I’ll just get to the point. I was wondering if you minded picking up the kids from school in an hour? You know I hate putting this on you, but I thought I could get off earlier today but something came up last minute here. And Jason is so picky about nannies and we just haven’t found a new one we like. And you’re so great with them.”

Betty pulls the phone away from her mouth in order to take in a long breath. Jughead walks back into the room as she’s straightening up. “Of course, Pol,” she says, forcing a bright voice. “No problem. I came in early today, so I can close up by then.”

“You’re the best,” Polly says, with evident relief. “Do you wanna have dinner tonight? You can hang out with the kids till we’re home and then I’ll order us some well-deserved take out of your choice.”

It’s a roundabout way of asking her to also babysit, which frustrates her. She’d appreciate Polly just being direct about it at this point, since it’s been two months since Jason fired the last nanny and essentially hired her, minus the pay.

But since she’d come home last night to her mother very pointedly saying Trev had dropped off another box of Betty’s things (if one could call a couple of socks and books that) and tried to wait around for her, she’ll take the excuses to stay out that she can get.

“That sounds great. I’ll see you tonight,” Betty says, and then hangs up with a bit more force than she’d like Jughead to see. She pivots back to him. “I’m gonna have to close up. Do you want me to drop you somewhere on my way out?”

His gaze is eagled and she doesn’t like it. “Uh, sure. That would be great. Everything…okay?”

She waves a hand and starts putting tools away. “Absolutely. Everything’s fine. Just babysitting duty again.”

Jughead hums. “You just don’t seem too thrilled.”

Betty tilts her neck up at him, momentarily thrown off guard. She narrows her eyes. “I love my family,” she says sharply. “I’m happy to help out.”

He shrugs indifferently, but there’s still something working behind his eyes. “Okay, sorry. That wasn’t my place.”

“It’s fine,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m just gonna finish packing up these tools and then get changed. Do you want to wait in my office?”

It’s an unspoken dismissal, and Jughead nods, scratching behind his neck. Once he’s gone, she lets out a shaky breath, trying to convince herself she’s unsure why she suddenly feels so frustrated. In reality, she knows it’s because she’s spent twenty-five years perfecting perfection and it’s unnerving that a guy she barely knows can spot her discomfort right away. She should be better than that.

But she is fine. It _is_ fine. She does genuinely love her family, but she also wants to appreciate having them. Life is fickle and she’s learned the hard way that no amount of rigorous planning can hold up against fate. So if that means she needs to hand her time over to her sister once in a while, she will.

After a few minutes, she’s ready to go. He emerges from her office looking pensive and frowning once more.

She locks up. Jughead follows.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love reading stories where characters are fully in denial of their feelings, but somehow mine always figure things out early on and then come up with a list of reasons why it's just A Bad idea. go figure. 
> 
> anyway, i forgot to mention this before, but the title and all the lyrics at the start of chapters comes from the stevie nicks song "landslide," which is a real fav of mine. 
> 
> i chose it and the title for a reason, because i've always seen it as this really beautiful story about crisis of identity stemming from being pulled in different directions of your childhood and then love. which hopefully is coming across in this fic. 
> 
> p.s. i've spent a reasonable amount of time in upstate new york (which, according to the canon comics, is more or less where riverdale is), so this fic very much operates with that. if you're unfamiliar with the area and want to look at a map, i headcanon riverdale to be about the size/location of the town of kingston, ny. catskill/hudson are places further upstate, and new paltz is a bit down. newburgh is the home of the motorcyclepdia museum (a real place!) and even further down. 
> 
> p.p.s. adam is a character from the og comics, as another reference. and damn this a/n is long. sorry.
> 
> anyway. once again, so appreciative of the comments so far. will try to keep the chapters lengthy, because as always i have so much i want to explore whilst not overestimating my ability to produce a many chaptered fic.
> 
> please drop me a review! i'd love to know what you guys are thinking. means so much to me.


	5. Chapter 5

_Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?_  
_Can I handle the seasons of my life?_

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Archie catches him as he’s passing by his room the next morning. “Hey dude,” he says from his doorway. “Is that for me?”

Jughead stops and turns, his messenger bag whacking him gently against the hip. He glances down at the coffee tray and bag of pastries in his hands. Truthfully, they’re for Betty, but he’s not quite sure how to explain that.

Waking annoyingly early had become his new normal since landing in Riverdale, so he’d once again risen to the lure of a dawn-soaked writing burst at the diner. But focusing had been harder this morning; he couldn’t stop thinking about Betty, and the obvious line he’d crossed yesterday.

Despite actual effort on his behalf, he’d somehow managed to put his foot in his mouth again with her. And while she appears to be a forgiving person, it seemed like pointing that fact out is what had upset her in the first place, so hell if he knows how to fix it.

She’d driven him back to the motel and chattered away with the same overly perky voice that she’d used on the phone with her sister, who she’d clearly been upset with, so he really has no idea where he stands with her anymore. Probably nowhere, if he’s learned anything from history.

And normally, he wouldn’t care. But he’s been telling himself that a lot lately.

So after accepting he wasn’t going to get anywhere else with his current chapter, Jughead had ordered two coffees and two chocolate croissants to-go in hopes of redeeming himself in her eyes. Then, realizing he’d forgotten his phone in his room, he’d walked back to the motel, only to be intercepted by his best friend.

And now, Archie Andrews is reaching for Betty’s breakfast.

But what would he say? Who else would they be for? Telling Archie they’re for Betty would only bequest a discussion about where Jughead has been spending his days recently, and then Archie would really never let it go. So he shuffles forward and allows Archie to take the food and coffee.

“This is awesome, thanks, Jug,” Archie says, happily taking a bite of Betty’s croissant. He speaks through a mouthful. “Come on in.” He moves back from the doorway, gesturing for Jughead to enter his room.

Jughead exhales, and steps forward. “How the fuck does your room already look like a tornado blew through it?” He asks, staring around. Archie has always had a particular gift with slobbery, but they haven’t even been here a week, so this must be some kind of new record.

“I couldn’t find this one shirt,” Archie says, with a playful cringe. “So I kind of tore my stuff apart looking for it. Turns out I didn’t even bring it. Whoops.”

“Whoops is right,” Jughead echoes lowly, running his eyes over the pile of clothes all over the floor.

Archie flops onto his bed. “So where you been, dude? I knocked on your door yesterday afternoon but you weren’t there, and you never called me back.”

“I was busy following a thread of inspiration,” Jughead says carefully, sipping at his own coffee. It’s definitely not a lie.

“Yeah, I figured it was something like that.” Archie nods, taking another bite of the pastry. “Get anything good out of it?”

Jughead fights against a grin, sinking into the armchair opposite Archie’s bed. “I think so. I have a new character. I think it’s tying things together, or at least setting things up for where I want to take the story. But we’ll see how long the muse lasts.”

“See, what did I tell you? A road trip was just what you needed to clear your head,” Archie says, eyebrows raised smugly.

Jughead scoffs. “We made it across one state line, Archie. I don’t know if this still counts as a road trip.”

Archie waves him off. “Same difference. Getting out of Boston for a bit was what you needed. Besides, I’m kinda glad we got stuck here. I mean, it sucks. But we’ll get our real road trip in sometime. And this way I get to know Veronica better. Did I tell you I asked her out?”

He didn’t, but Jughead already knew that, because Betty had informed him of the updated events. But he plays dumb, once again not interested in inviting the questions that would follow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She’s really something, Jug. We’re going to some town called New Paltz for dinner tonight, actually,” Archie says, now licking his fingers clean, Betty’s pastry long gone.

Jughead leans back in his chair. “Why do you have to go somewhere else for dinner?”

Archie shrugs. “She said the atmosphere is better at this one restaurant, or something. She was pretty adamant about it.”

Jughead’s eyebrows shoot up, which Archie immediately interprets with a frown. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” Jughead replies honestly. “Veronica sounds like a good fit for you. A girl who is direct and knows what she wants is probably as ideal as you can get. Remember Nancy? You wouldn’t leave me alone, trying to get me to decode every text she sent? That was hell.”

“Oh yeah,” Archie recalls with a laugh. “Well, Veronica’s definitely different. I really like her a lot.”

He rubs at his jaw. “Well, you can’t like her that much,” he says stiffly. His throat feels tight. “You don’t even know her.”

“It’s okay. You just don’t get it, Jug,” Archie says, almost a bit pitifully. “You need like, a spreadsheet of pros and cons before you start liking someone, so I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“I do not,” Jughead refutes, scowling as something blonde flashes in his mind’s eye.

“Really? How long did it take for you to agree to go out with Ethel?”

He grimaces. “That was different. Ethel thought I was someone I’m not. I figured only once she got to know me would she realize I’m just as annoying as everyone else thinks.”

Archie’s expression carries something thoughtful. “You’re not annoying, Jug. You’re just…”

“An acquired taste?” Jughead smirks.

“Yeah,” Archie agrees, chuckling. “A bit. Reggie thinks you’re funny though. He wants to hang out when we get back. He says you’re _real_.”

“Well, move over Watergate, that’s really the shock of the century—though I think the bar is probably pretty low, considering he hangs out with bankers,” he says dryly. “But that’s nice, I guess.”

The thought brings him back, realizing the past few days have been a blissful vacation from the reality wherein he doesn’t spend all of his free time in the company of a smart, beautiful woman. Reggie’s hardly any comparison as it is, but given that he’s probably long outworn his welcome with Betty, he might as well get used to the idea of a more reasonable social scene.

“Reggie’s a good dude,” Archie says, frowning. At Jughead’s confused look, he clarifies, “You’re making a weird face.”

“No, he’s fine. I was just thinking,” Jughead sighs, trying to wipe Betty from his thoughts. “And anyway, this is just my face. All it does is look weird, I promise.”

Archie shrugs. “Whatever you say. So what are you gonna do for the rest of the day? Wanna hang until I have to get ready to meet Veronica?”

“Rain check. I’d like to pound out a few chapters, ideally.” Jughead takes a meditative sip of his coffee. “Might go check on the truck too.”

And there it is—the reason he hasn’t told Archie just how much time he’s spent “checking on the truck.” An impish, teasing kind of grin seizes Archie’s face and it instantly makes Jughead want to squirm. “Oh, really?”

“Not this again,” Jughead mutters, rising from his seat. “You know, I’m allowed to check on the truck. Considering both of us are relying on it to get out of here eventually.”

Archie quirks his brow. “I know, dude. I’m only teasing you because you turned bright red when you said it.”

“Did not,” he insists, fighting the urge to cross his arms. “And now I’m going.”

“Okay, well, say hi to the mechanic for me,” Archie says cheerily, though he’s met with a very sour glare. “By the way, do you wanna head down to the river tomorrow? Veronica says it’s nice over there.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Jughead concurs, thinking that he might be able to get some writing in while Archie splashes around and that he probably should spend at least a little time with his best friend considering that was the whole point of Archie tagging along.

“I’ll call you in the morning?”

Jughead nods. “Have a good date. And don’t do anything I’d do.”

Archie’s laugh follows him out the door.

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He stops back at Pop’s for round two of Betty’s breakfast, mumbling a _don’t ask_ when Pop Tate gives him a funny look, and then makes the comfortable trek to the garage.

Betty is hunched over an old Volkswagen as he strolls in, but he must be moving more quietly than he thinks, because she jumps about five feet in the air when she realizes he’s standing behind her.

“Shit! Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, nearly dropping her coffee and wondering when in the hell he’ll do something right with her.

She collapses against the door of the car, her hand over her heart. “No, it’s fine. Just…you surprised me.”

“Not expecting me?” He asks, sure he’s about to be dismissed again.

“Not that,” she says, her full lips forming a smile. “Just was in the zone. It’s a good thing I hadn’t gotten out my paint buffer yet though.”

“Well, here,” Jughead says after a moment, because he’s not sure what else to do. He practically shoves the coffee cup and pastry bag into her arms. “I come bearing French patisserie.”

She blinks, and then peeks inside the little white bag. “Chocolate croissant? How’d you know that’s my favorite?”

He hadn’t, but he’s pleased his instincts hadn’t been far off. “You seemed like a sweet morning pastry kind of gal. And there’s two sugars in there too, for the coffee. I noticed you did that last time, so.”

Betty’s mouth snaps shut, and he thinks it’s possible she might be blushing, but she quickly sweeps off to a work table to add the sugar to her coffee and he can’t get a good look at the color of her cheeks. “This is sweet, Jughead. Thank you.” She looks up at him expectantly, like perhaps she thinks he’s about to ask for a favor.

He wonders if she’s ever had people doing things for her because they want to, not because they want something. But then again, despite trying to push down his attraction to her, he’s not sure which category he falls into.

He scratches behind his ear. “It’s not a big deal. I was at Pop’s anyway.”

“Oh,” Betty says softly. “Well. Thank you, again.”

He scans her face, looking for something that confirms his fears. That she wants him to go, that he’s missed his cue; that he’s officially said one rude thing too many. But she’s just smiling at him, and he has no idea what to do with that.

Another moment passes between them. “Feel like suiting up?” She asks, finally breaking the silence. “I’m about to switch over to your truck again.”

Jughead nods, something like relief in his lungs. He sees himself to the supply closet where the uniform he’s borrowed before lives. “You know,” he calls across the garage, as he slips into the jumpsuit. “I’m starting to suspect there is no Joaquin. I’ve been here for a couple days now and haven’t seen a wisp of this guy anywhere.”

Betty laughs, and as he returns to her, he sees that she seems to be enjoying her croissant. It warms him more than he’d like to admit. “He’s real,” she says, covering her mouth with her hand as she chews and speaks. “You met his boyfriend, Kevin.”

“Yeah, him I remember,” he mumbles lowly, much to Betty’s amusement. Words couldn’t express the surprise he’d felt when Kevin had snuck up on him, and while he otherwise might’ve cursed the invasion of personal space, her grin is infectious. He breaks into a matching smirk.

She seems to be at war with her manners, as if she can’t bear to eat during polite conversation. But she eyes her pastry longingly, and then takes another bite. “Joaquin used to be here a lot more, but he went back to school this year, so he’s pretty busy now. He mostly works weekends.”

“What’s he studying?” Jughead asks, because he catches himself watching the curve of her neck as she swallows and he needs to distract himself.

“Nursing,” Betty chirps, finishing off the croissant. “My dad always said fixing cars wasn’t too different from fixing people, so it’s a bit of a logical step, in it’s way.”

“Yeah?” Jughead prompts, thinking about what she’d said about a car engine working like a heart. It’s a simple metaphor, but one that’d stuck with him all the same.

She nods. “Yep. He said if you knew how to work an engine, you’d never have a broken heart.”

Something twists in his own chest and he has the sudden, overwhelming feeling of not knowing what to do with his body. “Was he right?”

Betty’s eyes move across him. For a moment, she looks utterly lost, and then her face is sealed with a blank smile. “I wouldn’t know,” she says, inhaling and exhaling faintly. It sounds like a lie.

She’d asked him once what she struck him as; he’s starting to not like the answer he might have. Betty is certainly a complicated woman with a lot of moving parts, but looking at her now, he recognizes a familiar sadness living within her.

A bitter kind of enemy he’s known his whole life—only where Jughead wears it like a badge of honor, Betty seems to fold it away inside herself, where he knows it can become dark, damp, and breathing. It has a name.

And then she’s flashing him a blinding smile, inviting him to work alongside her. Her smile that says _don’t,_ her eyes that beg worry, and he feels a piece clicking into place of the puzzle that is Betty Cooper.

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.

_“Hands up!”_

_He freezes, slowly following the instructions thrown across the alleyway. He turns and meets the hard gaze of a gun. “What are you doing here?” The same voice asks sharply, and his eyes dart up into the face of a woman in a crisp suit, her blonde hair tied back._

_“Well, what are_ you _doing here?” He echoes, raising an eyebrow._

_The question clearly throws her off, and the gun briefly dips lower. “I asked you first,” she returns, quirking an eyebrow right back. She takes one hand off her weapon to reach inside her pocket, where she retrieves a shiny police badge to flash at him._

_“That’s fair,” he concedes.“I’m a private investigator, and I’m currently following the hunch that was dropped into that dumpster over yonder.”_

_The woman sighs noisily and lowers her gun as he hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Oh, lovely. This is just what I need; some amateur P.I. muddling about on my case. Let’s see some identification.”_

_He defies the typical impulse to roll his eyes in the face of authority, but reaches for his card and license anyway. “My name is—”_

Jughead looks up suddenly, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He knows that laugh.

He hears it again across the diner, and this time his eyes follow the sound. Betty’s sitting in a booth by the door, her head thrown back with giggles. She’s bathed in the warm red glow of neon and he’s struck by a sophistic desire to trace the line of her.

He wonders how long she’s been here, if she saw him typing away feverishly in the back of the restaurant. Jughead gets his answer rather quickly; as if she can feel his eyes on her, she glances around and meets his stare. After a moment, she seems to say something to the two people across from her, and then Betty rises from her booth and, as fate would have it, makes for his table.

“Hi there,” she says, smiling down at him. She’s wearing a white button up covered in delicate little flowers and a skirt that skims at her mid thigh. He feels an annoying kind of flush rising along his neck. “What’re you doing?”

“Writing,” he says, returning her grin despite himself.

She leans against the red vinyl opposite him. “Oh? And what are you writing, exactly?”

He swallows. He probably shouldn’t lie to her, but should she press him much further, she’ll easily put the pieces together. “A novel. That’s how I earn my bread; I’m a fiction writer.”

Betty looks pleasantly surprised. “Really? Have you written anything I might’ve read?”

Now he’s sure his face is burning as crimson as the lights of the diner, though he can only hope it masks a bit of his blush.

“Well,” he drawls.

He looks at her expectantly.

Her eyebrows quirk and needle as she waits for him to say more. When he doesn’t, her expression turns studying, and then, with a gasp, she stomps her foot. He finds the indignant movement shockingly endearing.

“You jerk! You’re JP Jones!” She covers her face with her hands. “Oh my god—how could you let me go on the other day, rambling about everything I didn’t like about your book?”

He snorts. “I thought about saying something, when I first saw it on your work table, but…I don’t always get such honest feedback. It was actually really helpful.”

That seems to mollify Betty; in fact, she straightens, looking downright delighted as she peeks at him through her fingers. “Really? I was helpful?”

His smirk softens, unsure how she affects such a genuine aura, but he’s a bit in awe of it. “Really. Like I said then, you’ve got an editorial way about you. I…was in a bit of a block with my sequel, and it gave me some fresh perspective.”

“Can I read some of it?” She asks excitedly, moving forward, and instinctually his arms cradle over his computer, promptly shutting it closed.

“No!” He practically yells it, and as her eyes widen realizes he must look one step from a tin foil hat. “No, no, it’s just not ready yet. It’s all jumbled up and completely incongruous to anyone but me, I think.”

If he’s being honest with himself, he knows it’s because he’s just realized there’s a blonde detective flirting with his main character beneath his keyboard, and the idea of Betty reading that has a familiar, painfully adolescent kind of embarrassment to it.

“Okay,” Betty says slowly, her smile returning. “Well, if you change your mind…I have an English degree. I actually interned at a publishing house, for a little while. I like editing; helping people with their writing. I really like it, actually. So, you know where to find me if you want another set of eyes.”

His arms are still carefully swaddling his laptop, but he makes a note to relax his shoulders as he absorbs this new information about her and how much sense it seems to make. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says.

Betty beams at him, and once again he’s struck with the awkward feeling of being unsure what to do. She pushes off from her perch against the booth, and then falters. “Do you want…to join us? It was supposed to be just Kevin and me, but then Joaquin got back from Catskill early, and now I’m just third-wheeling. Plus, I can prove to you that Joaquin does, in fact, exist.”

It’s almost sad how little he has to think about it. “Well, this I need to see with my own eyes,” he declares, standing up. Betty helps him with gathering his things, swooping up his coffee and burger remnants and taking them back to her table, where Kevin and a dark-haired guy are waiting.

Kevin’s fist is nestled under his chin and he smiles up at him curiously. “Kev, you remember Jughead,” Betty says, placing his things down on the table. “And this is Joaquin,” she adds pointedly to him, which Jughead returns with a brief wiggle of his eyebrows before shaking Joaquin’s hand.

Betty slides into her booth, and Jughead realizes he’s supposed to sit next to her. He does so, and their knees touch as he settles into his seat, which sends a flurry up his spine. _Get a hold of yourself,_ he tells himself.

She smiles over at him, her eyes flitting across his face.

“So,” Kevin announces, leaning forward without much preamble, “what kind of name is Jughead anyway?”

 _“Kevin,”_ Betty admonishes, turning her attention onto him.

“What?” He looks unabashed. “I want to know. Is that rude?”

“Yes, dear,” Joaquin mumbles lowly, and Jughead smirks, thinking he might like this guy. Joaquin has the kind of energy he likes best, one of silent and sturdy and sarcastic observation.

“It’s fine,” Jughead sighs, sparing a reassuring glance at a clearly mortified Betty. “It’s a dumb nickname from when I was a baby. I was learning how to walk and apparently did so right into a table, where a big maple syrup jug was minding its own business. I knocked it off and onto my head.”

He lifts up his hat and brushes aside his hairline, where a thin scar still remains on his left temple. “I had to go the hospital and get stitches. My father oh-so-lovingly called me Jughead after, and unfortunately, it stuck. But my real name isn’t much better, so I’m not really complaining.”

“And what’s your real name?” Kevin asks immediately.

“ _That_ you’ll have to visit my gravestone to find out,” Jughead replies coolly.

“I know what it is,” Betty says, her voice taking on a teasing lilt.

“ _Et tu,_ Cooper?” Jughead utters. She giggles, and he rolls his eyes.

Kevin glances between them like he’s at Wimbledon and they’re serving tennis balls across the table. “So, Jughead, how are you liking Riverdale so far?”

“Oh, he hates it,” Betty intercedes innocently, dipping a french fry in a pile of ketchup. She then bites it daintily, her eyes sparkling. “He called it a podunk farm town. Right?”

He releases a long-suffering sigh. “Also on that gravestone will be a hand-carved epitaph from Betty that reads: _here lies Jughead, he once said something bad about my town and I never let it go._ ”

She laughs again. “Probably more like, _here lies Jughead Jones: so pedantic, even in death._ ”

“Or, _here lies the murder-suicide of Jughead Jones and the Oxford comma._ ” 

“That one’s good. A little dark, but good,” she says blithely, and they grin at each other, only looking away when they realize Kevin is saying his name. 

“So I can assume you’re sticking around while your truck is getting fixed?” Kevin asks, his voice a touch too colloquial. He glances at and nudges his boyfriend. “He’s the one I told you about. The one I accidentally accosted when I thought you were working.”

“I think so,” Jughead admits, keeping his gaze trained on Kevin though he feels Betty look over at him with surprise. He pats his laptop on the table in front of him. “Thus far Riverdale has been good to me and my friend the creative process.”

“Jughead is a writer,” Betty supplies, and if Jughead didn’t know any better, he’d say she sounded a little proud. “Kev, he wrote that book you gave me. He’s JP Jones.”

Kevin’s neck twists quickly back to Jughead. “ _You_ wrote _A Prayer for Helter-Skelter?_ Oh my god, my dad is obsessed with that book. Can you sign a copy for me? I’ll never have to get him another present again.” He pauses. “Wow, you’re so much more interesting than I thought you’d be.”

“Thanks. I think,” Jughead says, wrinkling his nose. “And, uh, sure.”

“Sorry about him,” Joaquin adds quietly. “For someone who plans on going into politics, he has no filter.”

Kevin shrugs. “I can turn it off and on. I just happen to mostly have it off.”

“So, I didn’t realize you planned on staying in Riverdale for the next few weeks. I thought you might go down to the city, or something,” Betty says surreptitiously, while Jughead makes eyes at her remaining french fries. She gestures for him to go ahead, and he reaches across her.

“Well, that I am. Staying, that is. Actually, we’re even planning on seeing the sights a bit. Tomorrow Archie and I were thinking of going down to the river,” he replies, polishing off the fries.

“Is this the same Archie Veronica’s currently on a date with?” Kevin elucidates, which Betty confirms with a nod. “Hm. The river should be nice tomorrow, though it’s always a little crowded on the weekend. Betty, weren’t we just talking about going there?”

She passes him a flat look, but doesn’t deny it. “We were,” she agrees warily.

“You could…join us,” Jughead says, before he can really think any better of it. “I’m sure Archie wouldn’t mind.”

While Kevin enthusiastically agrees to the plan, Betty plays with the end of her ponytail, wrapping it around over her shoulder as she smiles at him. Jughead thinks he won’t mind either.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to those who were wondering if that was jughead's book: you were right! 
> 
> i know this chapter was mostly dialogue but that's always my favorite to write, and they're still getting to know each other. pretty please drop me a review and let me know what you thought!


	6. Chapter 6

_Well, I've been afraid of changing_  
_'Cause I've built my life around you_

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“Knock, knock,” comes a familiar voice, quickly followed by Veronica’s dark head peeking around her bedroom door.

“Hi, V, come on in,” Betty says distractedly, standing back to get a better look at the organized piles on her bed. “Where’s Kevin?”

“Downstairs, being interrogated-slash-interviewed by your mother. She says she wants to do an article on the pageantry of parade floats.” Veronica takes a seat by Betty’s pillow, crossing her legs as she presses one hand into the soft florals of the bed sheets. She’s wearing a short black sundress and her sunglasses are perched on the top of her head. She glances around. “Are we going somewhere tropical?”

Betty looks up. “What? No. I’m just making sure I have everything.”

“There’s like two weeks worth of sun products here, B,” Veronica replies, her lips curling upwards. “We’re going to Sweetwater, not Waikiki; you don’t need four towels and SPF three-thousand.”

“I’m just going through my options,” Betty insists. “Besides, Polly texted me this morning and said she and the kids are going down to the river today too, since it’s so nice out. They need high SPF; they’re so fair.”

“Let Polly bring her own kids’ sunscreen.” Her look is pointed.

“I’m sure she is. I thought I’d have it just in case,” Betty says, throwing the jumbo bottle into a bag anyway. Veronica throws a hand into the air, but doesn’t say anything else. “Anyway, what suit should I wear? I’m sure you have an opinion.”

“Mais oui,” Veronica preens, standing up and coming around to the selection of suits laid out on the bed. She immediately reaches for the stringiest bikini available and dangles it in Betty’s face; a tiny pink thing that Betty hardly ever wears and, right now, wonders why she even still has it.

Betty grabs it out of Veronica’s hands and puts it back on the bed. “Not that one.”

“I thought you might say that,” Veronica grins, something glittering in her eyes. “You’d look so Bikini Kill in it, but I get it. It’s a lot for just Sweetwater. Okay, what about this one? One-pieces are very in right now. I’m wearing one too. Granted, mine has quite a few more cut-outs in it.”

Veronica has selected a simple white one-piece with a low back and high hips, and Betty smiles and takes it, going behind her closet door to change.

As she’s pulling her cutoffs on over the suit, she hears Kevin enter the room and immediately exclaim, “Oh my god, am I going off to war?”

“You two are so dramatic,” Betty huffs, slipping an open pink button up over her arms and coming around the door. “I just wanted to have enough food and sun protection for everyone. You’ll be thanking me when you’re hungry and want one of the sandwiches I made.”

Kevin and Veronica exchange looks. “True,” he admits, shrugging. “Alright, I’m loading up the car. Gimme something to carry.”

Throwing the rest of the snacks into one of her large canvas bags, Betty passes it and the cooler to Kevin, who accepts them with a theatrical grunt and a poorly repressed eye roll.

“I’ll take this one,” Veronica offers, grabbing the second beach bag, and then they’re both gone.

Betty moves in front of her little vanity mirror, staring at herself. She hasn’t quite gotten past catching her reflection in the mirror of her childhood bedroom; amongst the pink flowers on the wall and the old photographs, it feels like a looking glass into time, like she’s sixteen again and questioning everything, especially her own appearance.

But looking at herself now, she actually likes this look—pale pink, light washed denim blue, and crisp white have always been her colors. She reties her ponytail and tugs it through the back strap of her ratty old blue baseball cap, hoists the last bag over her shoulder, as well as her purse, and slips into her Keds.

When she gets downstairs, her mother is typing away by an open window, a glass of fresh lemonade beside her. “I’m going now, Mom,” she says, and it’s a moment before her mother looks up.

“Have everything?” She asks, folding her hands together. Betty nods. “Sun-block?” Betty nods again, and Alice Cooper returns her gaze to her computer. “Then have a nice day. By the way, the fridge looked a little empty yesterday. Pick up some fruit and milk on your way back, would you?”

“Sure,” Betty says easily, waving goodbye. Kevin and Veronica are waiting for her outside, leaning against her big blue car and gossiping away. They fall suspiciously silent as they spot her, but move aside for her to throw the bag through the open window. Veronica slides into the passenger seat and Kevin climbs into the back, and then they’re off.

“So how was your date last night? I was very patiently waiting to ask until Betty was here so you wouldn’t have to tell the story twice,” Kevin says, leaning forward and resting his chin on the back of Veronica’s seat.

She twists excitedly. “It was quite nice, for a first date,” she says demurely. “We went to that French place in New Paltz you like, Kevin.”

“What does Archie do?” Betty asks, eyes on the road, realizing that if he’s sticking around with Jughead, he must also have some kind of freelance job.

Veronica laughs. “I can’t believe I didn’t open with that. He actually writes commercial jingles. Do you remember that one about the singing vacuum cleaner?”

Kevin and Betty simultaneously burst into the same hypnotically insipid tune, and Veronica giggles again. “Yes, that one. The twins were so obsessed with that commercial. Cheryl took the televisions out of their rooms because they were constantly singing it.”

“How could I forget?” Betty half-gripes. “That sounds like a fun job, though.”

“He says it’s just to pay his bills, and he wants to really be a singer-songwriter,” Veronica adds, with a slight sigh. “Which is cute.”

“Or potentially annoying, if he’s not any good,” Kevin quips.

Veronica waves a hand and her bracelets tinkle slightly. “I don’t think I’ll know him long enough to get annoyed. We’re just having fun. He’s leaving in, what, less than three weeks? How long do you think it’ll take you to fix that truck, Betty?”

“About that,” she says, sighing.

“So, have you slept with him yet?” Kevin asks, a smidge too excitedly.

“I have my rules, Kevin Keller,” Veronica replies with faux-offense. “I’m not quite as prone to playing with my food as I used to be, but I still like to wait a little bit. Probably date two.”

“You’re seeing him again, then? Besides today, obviously.”

Veronica nods. “Tomorrow night. I suppose this could count as a second date, but considering you two sprung his inclusion in our afternoon plans on me, I’m not partial to anything that wasn’t my own idea.”

“Well, it was _Jughead’s_ idea,” Betty says, “and we did check with you.”

She notices Kevin and Veronica exchanging looks again. “Yeah, though we couldn’t exactly say no, with him making such big puppy eyes over at Betty,” Kevin says, after a moment. Betty exhales loudly. “I’m sorry, I know I said I wouldn’t meddle, but—”

“Then don’t,” Betty interrupts. Veronica opens her mouth, but Betty is faster. “Either of you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you two whispering already. Please, guys. I’m not going to be able to unwind at all today if I feel like I need to babysit your twitter feeds. And you both have been on my case about relaxation, so you don’t get it both ways. Pick one and stick to it.”

They stare at one another, then at Betty. “Very well,” Veronica pouts, shifting in her seat so that she faces the road again.

Betty reaches forward and turns on the radio, and the sweet crooning of _doo-wop_ filters through the speakers. She’s always liked the genre; it has the chronic romanticism that can span to relevance of any part of her life, but it’s also as soothing as it is saddening. Like catching the eye of her reflection across the crowded room of her heart and not being able to close the distance.

She slips her hand out the window, undulating it against the wind, and lets her mind clear.

They reach their destination not much later, and it’s still early enough for the parking lot not to be madness. Sweetwater River is an inlet of the larger Hudson River, with a small stretch of patchy water mostly used by kayakers and other boaters, but largely a leisurely stream of floating inner tubes, frolicking families, and warm, coarse sand.

It takes a moment to gather all the things Betty has packed, plus the collapsible and utterly gigantic beach umbrella Veronica insisted on and secretly stashed in the trunk _(“I never want to hear another word about my packed lunches, Ronnie.”)_ , but eventually they heave everything out of the car and find an unoccupied patch of beach to drop anchor.

Betty texts Jughead instructions for their location, having gotten his cell number last night, and he replies with a thumbs up emoji, promising Archie is a slow-mover but they’re on their way.

She puts her phone on her towel, while Kevin sheds down to his swim trunks and pulls on an open, cuffed button up and Veronica starts lathering herself with tanning oil. Betty kicks off her sneakers and tucks her knees under her chin, peeking up at the sky from under the brim of her baseball cap.

She watches the trees rustle with an unseen breeze.

.

.

.

She’s still sitting there, staring at nothing, when she hears a voice over her shoulder. “Hey there, Gilligan,” Jughead says, plopping into the sand beside her.

He’s dressed the same as usual, with dark pants and drooping suspenders, but this time he’s rolled his jeans up to the ankle and is only wearing a white undershirt. He’s still donning the beanie and he’s barefoot.

“You found us,” Betty greets, momentarily distracted by the surprising amount of definition in his arms.

“Wasn’t hard,” he scoffs. “Could spot that thing a mile away.”

They both turn and look at the big beach umbrella behind them. Archie and Kevin are making introductions under it and Veronica looks pleased to see him. Betty gives Jughead another once over, feeling a bit disappointed as a thought occurs to her. “You’re not dressed to swim.”

He rubs behind his neck in what she’s learning is a tell-tale nervous tick. “I’m not much of a swimmer, honestly. I’ve got a pair of trunks in Archie’s backpack, but…mostly I planned to read or maybe write, if I’m lucky.” He pulls a dog-eared paperback and a moleskin journal from his back pockets and gives them a little shake.

She stretches her arms over her bare, tanned legs, sizing him up. “Have you ever swum in a river? It’s not like the ocean. The water is cool and calm and you just float along.”

“I can’t say that I have. Sounds almost nice,” he admits.

“It is. There’s nothing like it. It’s…well, I’m not the writer here, so I’m not quite sure how to describe it. But, peaceful.”

“Well, you make a hard case to argue, Betty Cooper.” She pretends to look offended, and he grins. “I’ve got an image as an aloof miscreant to uphold, but I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll want to once you realize how hot it’s supposed to be today.” She says it lightly, but Jughead’s eyes are lingering on her legs and she feels the heat of the day already. She quickly pulls the cooler over to them. “I brought drinks and water and snacks, also. And sandwiches for lunch.”

“And dinner, and desert, and The Last Supper, by the looks of it,” Jughead says admirably, peering into the snack bag next to it.

“Everyone always makes fun of me, but they all manage to eat whatever I bring anyway,” Betty huffs, halfway between a laugh and indignancy.

“I’m not making fun of you,” Jughead replies seriously. “I think it…I’m basically always hungry. So between my _Homo neanderthalensis_ companion and me, you definitely don’t have to worry about the food getting eaten. On my honor, I swear to thee,” he adds wryly.

“Big words from a guy wearing a wool hat at the beach,” Betty jests, and he snorts, his fingers tracing the edge of his beanie. She reaches over and picks at one of his loose suspenders. “Like, did you confuse Hawaii 5-0 as Hawaii _50_ and think it was about old men at the beach?”

“Ouch,” he whistles. “You know, I _like_ my suspenders.”

She does too, but she won’t give him the satisfaction, so she just shrugs coyly.

He shakes his head at her, giving a good show of looking affronted. “So I take it my sacred vessel is in the hands of Joaquin today?”

“ _Yes_ , even though I told him I wanted him here,” Kevin says tersely from behind them.

“He wanted the hours, Kev, don’t blame me,” Betty replies, sweeping a look over at him. He’s stretched out on his stomach underneath Ronnie’s giant umbrella and looking downright petulant. He starts to reply, but something catches his eye beyond Betty’s shoulder and he seems to lose the train of thought.

“Oh my god, it’s Queen of the River Styx,” he drawls instead, nudging Veronica with his foot.

She looks over, sighs, and then raises a hand in the air in greeting. “Hi Cheryl!” She calls across the water. Cheryl hesitates, then responds with a half-wave of her hand that is probably the same gesture she uses in a dismissal.

“God, she is so extra. I mean, I love it, but _so_ extra,” Kevin mutters, and this time Betty actually agrees; Cheryl Blossom is floating downriver on a large, bright pink flamingo-shaped raft, wearing oversized sunglasses and a cherry red bikini.

It’s outdoing herself, even for Cheryl.

“I’m gonna go say hi,” Betty announces, mostly because she’s been aching to get into the water but didn’t want to rudely be the first one to leave the beach encampment without good reason.

She peels out of her cutoffs and shirt, tossing her hat onto the sand. Jughead is watching her, but when she catches his eye, he mutters a _“have fun”_ and hastily turns his attention onto his book.

She dives into the water, enjoys a moment of the cool quiet beneath the surface, and then bobs upwards. She always loves that first meeting of the river and the sun. Betty starts swimming towards Cheryl’s raft, where the redhead in question is currently rubbing sunscreen into her pale, glossy skin.

“Hello there,” Cheryl says, not looking up. She deposits the tube of sunscreen into a cup-holder on the flamingo’s wing and trades it out for a bottle of water with a straw in it. She takes a sip, and then uses one finger to push her sunglasses up onto her forehead, finally glancing over.

“I didn’t know you’d be here today, Cheryl,” Betty says, treading water in front of the raft. She grabs hold of it, and it sweeps both of them slowly downriver.

“Came with the fam, don’t forget to come say hi,” she replies coolly. Betty and Cheryl’s dynamic had once been fraught with high school hierarchies, but years of therapy and mood-stabilizers have done wonders for their relationship. Betty is grateful for the shift, considering she’s now related by marriage to her and sees her quite a bit more than she ever expected, still after she and Veronica broke up.

Cheryl even once admitted that, since the split, Betty is the only other person besides her therapist that she talks to about her bipolar disorder—as Jason always tries to fix her and Polly couldn’t be trusted to keep it from him—and ever since then, the two women have grown closer. As close as one can get to Cheryl Blossom, that is; they still have plenty of off-days.

“So, who’s the tall drink of orange juice talking to my ex?” Cheryl asks, in an incredibly poor attempt at sounding casual. Across the water, though now farther away, it’s clear that Archie and Veronica are laid strewn on towels and talking closely.

“Cheryl, you can’t do this again,” Betty warns. “It’s been over a year.”

The redhead sighs heavily, palming her hands along the cool water as she adjusts against her raft. “Oh, spare me the lecture, Olivia Newton-John. I know. I’m not going to _interfere_ , I just want to make sure he’s up to standard.”

“You both _mutually agreed_ breaking up was the right thing to do,” Betty reminds her, because there’s something longing in Cheryl’s expression that worries her. “You know it was. The timing just wasn’t right.”

“Yes, but I always thought, after—well, it doesn’t matter. So who is he? She certainly has developed a type, at least.” She flips her long red hair over her shoulder.

Betty folds her arms on the edge of Cheryl’s pink flamingo raft. “His name is Archie. He and his friend were on a road trip, but their truck broke down in the parking lot of Pop’s. Veronica was covering one of her mom’s shifts, and, well.”

Cheryl sighs and flicks an invisible shred of dust off her bathing suit. “So he’s not sticking around long?”

“Should take me a few weeks to fix it all up, but no. They’ll be gone,” Betty says, digging her chin into her crossed arms.

“Veronica isn’t like us,” Cheryl says, after a long moment of inspecting Betty. Her voice is uncharacteristically tender. “She’s not as picky.”

“Are you serious? Veronica is the pickiest person I’ve ever met, Cheryl, you should know that better than anyone.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Cheryl sighs impatiently. “With shoes and jewelry and dresses, yes, she is, of course. But she gets back on the horse right away. She’s fearless. She sees something she wants, and she goes for it, because she knows she’ll always land on her feet. I always loved that about her. Me…I don’t do anything I can’t control, can’t predict. And neither do you, Betty dear. That’s where we’re alike.”

“I’m not like that,” Betty says quietly, knowing it’s a lie. She’s good Betty Cooper, she who does everything for everyone, but Cheryl has a point. The sun shines brightly on the water and her eyes find Jughead on the beach, his nose in a book.

“Please. Let’s not insult either of our intelligences,” Cheryl insists sharply. “You had a boy down on one knee for you and you practically ran away screaming. So riddle me this, Rapunzel: why wouldn’t you let down your hair for sweet Trevor Brown?”

But Betty can’t answer that. She still doesn’t know how to put it into words, still can’t even begin to form the thought without the feverish flutterings of a panic attack. She presses her lips together, and Cheryl just leans back against the flamingo’s neck, pushing her sunglasses back down over her nose.

“I thought so. I’m not paying my therapist all that money every week for nothing, Cleopatra of denial. Now, give me a nudge. I want to float away my troubles.”

Betty complies, giving the flamingo raft a shove downstream. Cheryl waves her away, tipping her chin up to the sun, and then the current sweeps her lightly down the river. Betty dips her head under water once more, and starts swimming in the opposite direction, her limbs feeling strong and toned as she heads upstream. She finds Polly, Jason, and the kids on a beach not far up, and cuts their way.

She tans herself on the private Blossom beach for a little while, trying very hard not to think about Cheryl’s words, and has a bit of light conversation with her sister and brother-in-law. It turns out that Polly has, indeed, brought her own high SPF sunscreen. The twins are busy with squirt guns, and she indulges them in a bit of warfare before reentering the river.

As she returns to the original stretch of sand, where Kevin is texting, Jughead is still reading, and Archie and Veronica are now splashing each other playfully in the water, Betty is bathed in sunshine and sparkling green water and feels simultaneously so at ease—and so alone.

She desperately wants to blame Cheryl Blossom for planting the seed, but truthfully, she’s lived with this thought for some time now. It’s duplicitous; swimming amongst the reeds and trees along the riverbanks is freeing, anonymous—but humbling, and isolating. She feels so small amongst the pines.

She kicks back towards the shore, past Archie and Veronica, and steps out of the water. Jughead’s head rises slowly from his book, and for a fleeting moment she wonders if he might be looking at her in a way that speaks to the heat in her own belly at the sight of his toned arms.

“Do you guys want to go swimming with me? The water’s really nice,” she asks, glancing between the two of them.

Kevin’s eyes don’t leave his phone. “Maybe in a bit,” he says vaguely, which is _Kevin_ for there’s-something-much-more-interesting-happening-on-Instagram.

She turns to Jughead. “What about you?” His Adam’s apple bobs and he makes a noncommittal sound. She really doesn’t want to go back into the water alone, but she doesn’t want to stay here on the beach either. “Please, Juggie?”

The nickname just slips out, and she’s far too sure she doesn’t know him well enough for it, but it seems to do the trick; he scrunches up his face and then sighs, getting to his feet. He rustles around in a blue backpack near the cooler, says he’s going to go change behind the trees, and disappears.

Kevin finally glances up, but doesn’t say anything. While she waits, Betty decides her wet hair feels too tight on her head, so she pulls out her ponytail and shakes it free.

Jughead returns a few minutes later, wearing nothing but a black pair of trunks and his hat. His clothes are bunched up in his hands, and he dumps them by his book. And then, after a moment of deliberation, pushes the wool beanie off his head as well. It falls onto the sand beside the rest of his things with an unassuming _plop_.

He stares at it, and then looks over at her. “Okay,” he says, in an indecipherable voice.

She forces her brain to play catch up, because the sight of his bare chest momentarily caused her to forget herself. She swallows. He has broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and once again, a surprising amount of lithe definition. Even Kevin is eying him with something like impressed approval.

“Right,” she says, turning on her heel and making her way back towards the river’s edge. She dives under the water and surfaces quickly, pushing her hair back over her head. “Come on!”

She swims out further, but Jughead’s toes line at the sand’s end. “You _can_ swim, right?” Betty asks, because Jughead is behaving strangely enough for her question it.

“Yes, I can swim,” he says flatly, but he hasn’t moved. “How deep does this go? I mean, how deep is the river?”

She cocks her head at him, treading water. “In the middle it’s probably 15 feet, but we can stick to the shallows, if you want.”

In a moment of decision, Jughead splashes into the water and dips his head under. He pops up a second later, flipping his hair back with a force that sends droplets flying. “I’ve just got a thing about not being able to see the bottom or touch down,” he says quietly, swimming towards her. “I know it’s ripe for metaphorical investigation, but spare me.”

“We won’t go too far out,” Betty promises, and for a moment, they’re just treading water, staring at one another. Jughead allows himself to sink slightly so that just his nose and eyes are above the surface. She can’t read his expression, but she feels warm and is unsure what’s the sun and what are her own nerves.

“Well, I’m here,” Jughead says finally. “But I’m not sure I see my way through the hype. What am I supposed to be doing in order to access catharsis?”

She laughs, and shifts onto her back, limbs spread out around her as if she were making a snow angel. “You just float, Juggie. Let the water take you where it wants.”

Betty kicks, frog-like, and swims in a circle around him. He watches for a moment with something like amusement, and then mimics her, allowing himself to float on his back.

“Wow,” he deadpans. “So this is nirvana.”

She laughs and splashes water at him. “Shut up.”

Ducking under the surface to avoid his retaliatory splash, she swims further out, though is sure to remain close enough to the shallows that he won’t get nervous. He follows, and they both consent to the current guiding them downstream.

Lazily, she cuts her arms over her head in a half-hearted backstroke, but mostly lets the river’s flow to do its ancient work. After what feels like an hour but is more likely ten minutes, she looks over, and Jughead is grinning at her, his normally downturned lips quirking upwards. 

She’s overcome with a simple thought: _he’s hot._  And then, slightly more poetically: she likes it when he wears handsomeness around the softness of his eyes. With a face that looks like it’s carried tension for years, relaxation looks especially good on him. 

“Well, alright. This _is_ nice, Ophelia,” he says.

“Leave it to you to make a morbid reference on a beautiful day,” Betty sighs, closing her eyes to the sun.

“I mean it, though,” Jughead says, softer. “This is actually kind of…nice. You’re right, it’s not like the ocean.”

“You’ve been missing out, Jughead Jones,” she replies, eyes still shut, but waiting for him to crack a cynical joke or drop some obscenely large vocabulary, or any of his usual responses.

But he doesn’t say a word.

.

.

.

Finally feeling her fingers and toes beginning to prune, Betty accepts that it’s probably time to pull herself out of the water for a bit, though she has no desire to. She feels so at ease, half-swimming, half-floating in peace with just Jughead by her side, but his stomach gives a loud gurgle and she breaks the silence with a giggle. “Hungry?”

“Always—but, particularly now, yes,” Jughead replies honestly.

“Lets head back, then,” Betty says, performing a half-curl in the water, her legs momentarily the only thing above the surface. She submerges herself fully, allowing a respite of underwater tranquility, and then returns for air.

They both turn and swim up against the stream, and when they reach the shore, everyone has returned to their stations. Kevin’s hair looks wet, so Betty assumes he finally went into the water, and Archie is strumming an acoustic guitar while Veronica suns herself.

Archie looks up as they approach. “Were you swimming, Jug?”

“No, I tripped and fell in,” Jughead replies, pokerfaced. “Yeah, I went swimming.”

“It’s my fault,” Betty intercedes, dropping to her knees and digging around in the cooler for a chilled lemonade. “I practically begged him.”

Archie’s eyebrows briefly knot into a peculiar expression, but he doesn’t seem to dwell on it because Betty has procured sandwiches in each hand.

“Who wants lunch?” Betty asks, only to be met by an affirming chorus of yeses. “We’ve got turkey or chicken salad.” People announce their decisions and Betty starts dolling out the sandwiches.

“I take back anything I’ve ever said, ever,” Kevin says gratefully through a mouthful of chicken salad. “Thank you for thinking to bring food, Betty.” Everyone agrees, and she feels a flush of warm appreciation.

After everyone polishes off their lunch, Archie resumes care of his acoustic guitar and launches into a soft rendition of the _Girl From North Country_. Jughead mutters in her ear that it wasn’t until two years ago that singer-songwriter Archie Andrews even knew who Bob Dylan was, and she fails to suppress her giggles.

The sun is now high overhead, her skin feels kissed golden, and her eyes fall to his lips as they pull from her ear.

Kevin has placed Betty’s baseball cap over his face while he lies on his back, Veronica is curled towards Archie, watching him play, and Betty and Jughead both lean back on one elbow, the length of their bodies warmed to the sky and facing one another. She watches a stray droplet run down his jaw.

 _“Remember me to one who lives there,”_ Archie crones in a gentle, pleasing voice. _“She once was a true love of mine.”_

Betty tucks a damp, tousled strand of hair behind her ear. Jughead’s eyes follow the movement.

.

.

.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: i only have eyes for you by the flamingos and girl from north country by bob dylan 
> 
> (i listened to a lot of doo-wop while writing this chapter) (writing the whole story, actually) (frankly the best of the flamingos album is the endorsed playlist for this fic)
> 
> (also, if you have never been river swimming, it is A++ and so amazing. highly recommend!)
> 
> y'all it is so hard writing a proper slow burn but i have committed. like i'm impatient to have them already jump each other, but i promise you i am pumping things up very soon--or, well. in it's way. also, i have decided this is def gonna be more than 10 chapters, though not sure how many yet. 
> 
> please let me know what you thought, a review always makes me so happy and really helps motivate the writing process!
> 
> sidebar: why is cheryl blossom so fun to write


	7. Chapter 7

_But time makes you bolder_  
_Even children get older_

.

.

.

On Sunday morning, Jughead wakes up with a sunburn.

It’s his own damn fault; in the rush to appease the wide-eyed beseeching of Betty and the subsequent distractions of her overall presence, he hadn’t thought about sun protection until late into the afternoon and the damage had already been done.

A part of him whispers: _worth it,_ but a smarter, far more logical side reminds him he could’ve enjoyed Betty’s company while still applying sunscreen. Alas.

But at least most of the burn is not on his face, and rather his chest, which he’s fairly certain hasn’t seen the light of day in years and probably won’t again for some time. Luckily, for someone with such vampiric tendencies, he manages to tan fairly well, so while it will never be quite as attractive as Betty’s golden glow, it should settle into an olive tone soon.

He stands in front of the motel bathroom mirror and slaps water onto his face, because now his mind is back to conjuring images of Betty strewn out beside him, her hair tangled and loose around her shoulders, and it’s been driving him mad since before bed last night.

It’s bad enough he’s got words like _sun-kissed_ floating around in his thoughts, further destroying any credibility he has left with himself; he doesn’t need to be further tormented of memories of her in that fucking white swimsuit.

“Goddamnit,” he mutters, as it happens again. He points at himself in the mirror, and says, flatly, _“No.”_

Jughead can accept that what he feels is attraction, can acknowledge he has the evidence of that _literally_ burned onto his fucking skin, but that doesn’t mean he gets to torture himself any more than usual. No, what he needs is a day spent in the company of his best friend, a big cup of coffee, followed by a second one, and absolutely zero time with Betty.

He’s already tried the cold shower.

Anyway, given that it’s a Sunday, he doesn’t have the usual excuse to hang around her, as she won’t be at the garage and he hasn’t been allowed any opportunity to invite himself along anywhere else. It’s probably for the best.

He gives his reflection one more warning jab of the finger and then goes to dress. He hesitates with the suspenders, after Betty’s little dig about them, but then feels silly for it. Even if he does have something of a crush, he’s not about to change his entire ethos (carefully crafted down to the fit of his jeans) in the course of one week.

Besides, he’s fairly sure she was just teasing him. Or he hopes so, because he knows it speaks to his tumultuous childhood that he still wears so many layers all at once, ready to sleep wherever he may need, change clothes without arousing suspicion. Like his habit with frugality, it’s hard to kick, even in adulthood.

He throws on an old, cozy t-shirt, ties a flannel around his waist, piles anything he needs for a burst of inspiration into his messenger bag, and then heads for Archie’s room.

“Ready for breakfast?” He asks, when the door swings open.

“Yeah,” Archie says, even though he’s not at all dressed. “Just gimme like, one minute.”

Jughead wanders into the room while Archie rushes around, throwing clothes onto the bed. “Just in case I don’t have time to change before my date tonight,” he explains when Jughead raises an eyebrow. He’s known Archie to wear his sneakers to a funeral and not bat an eyelash, so he’s not quite sure what to do with this flustered version of his best friend.

“You really like this girl, huh?” He says, watching Archie narrow down his choices to two shirts.

“A lot,” Archie breathes, settling on the nicer one, a soft blue button up. “Alright, let’s go.”

They head out and make the short walk to Pop’s. At this point, Jughead has taken nearly all his meals at the diner, so when he’s greeted by name by the owner and a passing waitress, he just has to shrug listlessly under Archie’s curious look.

“I like the food here,” he says simply.

The two of them settle into a booth, drop their orders, and receive their coffees. Once their server is gone, Archie clears his throat. “So…” He begins, obviously with an attempt at prompting.

“Don’t start,” Jughead replies with a groan. He’s _just_ started to enjoy his coffee and the last thing he wants is to regress into some moonish idiot again. “I don’t want to talk about her.”

Archie’s forehead wrinkles. “’Her’? Who is ‘her’? I was just going to ask you about how your book is coming. Wait…are you talking about Betty?”

“Aw, fuck,” Jughead mutters, cradling his head in his hands. “Never mind, forget I said anything.”

“Nu-uh, you went there, so let’s talk about it.” Across the table, Archie chuckles and starts to count on his fingers. “First, you invite her and her friends to hang out with us, which…like, I’m definitely not complaining, since one of those friends is Veronica. But when have you _ever_ done that? Then, the fact that she got you _swimming?_ I can’t remember the last time I saw you swim.”

“I swim,” he says defensively. “We were literally at the beach last week.”

“Yeah, and you just stood there with your feet in the water. And yesterday you guys were acting all…like you knew her. I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Jughead takes a stalling sip of coffee. “I asked her to teach me how to fix the truck, okay? Just because I wanted to learn for myself so I could take care of it later on. That’s it. There’s no Machiavellian subplot going on, so stop acting like I’ve been body-snatched.”

“So you’ve been what, hanging out at her garage?”

He bites at the inside of his mouth. “Well, yeah.”

“This _whole_ time?” Archie asks, his eyes bulging.

“No,” Jughead snaps brusquely. “I mean, Jesus, we’ve only been here for like, five days. I’ve been writing, mostly. Just…also spending some time at the garage. For educational purposes.”

Archie stares at him, and then bursts out laughing. “Alright, now I get all those little looks she gave you yesterday,” he says, shaking his head. Jughead glowers at him, though more frustrated with the fact that he has the adamant desire to shake Archie and beg him to explain what he means by _little looks_.

(Something else to torture himself with, undoubtedly.)

 _“Educational purposes,”_ Jughead repeats darkly. Maybe if he says it enough, he’ll believe it.

“Nah, you like her,” Archie says, after a moment of deduction. “I’ve known you my whole life, bro, you can’t pull that shit with me.”

Jughead wrestles with how to deny it with any stronger language to make Archie back off, but then deflates and sighs, losing the will to argue. “It doesn’t change anything.”

And that is the truth. He can admit to Archie, he can admit it to himself, but neither of these actions will have any sort of effect on the outcome. In less than three weeks time, he will be piling into his truck, driving to Chicago, and then heading back to Boston with his sister to resume a normal, Betty-free life.

He’s self-loathing, but even Jughead isn’t sure he’s _that_ self-loathing as to let himself get in any deeper with a woman he’ll never see again. It’s already bad enough that whatever benign little crush he’d felt for her before yesterday has been replaced by a magnified appreciation for the way she’d looked next to him, tousled by the river and tanned and soft-eyed, and—this is just after one day at the beach. He’s more than a little afraid to find out what else his imagination is capable of.

Archie looks confused. “What do you mean, it doesn’t change anything? I’m seeing Ronnie, and we’re in the same situation. Doesn’t stop us from having fun.”

Jughead sighs, and crosses his arms onto the table. “I’m not you, Archie. I don’t do casual very well. Go big or go home, right? Well even if I go big, I still have to go home to Boston. We live in different states, Arch. What, am I supposed to ask her out and then we go on a few dates and then we’re long distance for however long we can convince ourselves it’s a good idea? I mean, think about it.”

“You’re already planning a long distance relationship? You haven’t even been on one date,” Archie points out, raising his eyebrows.

Jughead groans. “I just mean—what’s the endgame here? What’s the point?”

“To get laid?” Archie suggests plainly, his hands in the air. “To have a connection with someone? To get to know somebody? To open up?”

“Yeah, because I’m so well known for all of those things. And—anyway, you’re making a dangerous assumption that she’s even interested,” Jughead reminds him, downing the rest of his coffee and slumping in his seat.

“I think that’s a pretty safe bet,” Archie says slowly, and then looks painfully amused at how quickly Jughead’s head jerks back up.

“What, that she’s interested? Come on, I’m trying to be realistic here,” Jughead says, scrubbing a hand across his face. “You’ve seen her. She’s way out of my league, pal.”

The look he gives Jughead borders on outright pity, which he decides is far worse than smug. “Maybe, but you’re really over-thinking this. Just…try not to think so much and go ask her out.”

Coming from someone who Jughead has witnessed jumping into far too many situations without consideration and getting in way over his head, this advice does little for comfort. “Well, I’m a writer, all I do is think, write, and mope, and over-think some more.”

Archie sighs. “Alright, look. I know you, Jug, so I won’t push you on it, because that won’t help. But, I’ll just say this: better to have loved and lost than not loved at all, right?”

He stares across the table. “How is it you can quote Tennyson at me but still don’t know who Stevie Nicks is?” Jughead moans, hiding his face in his hands.

“I know who he is,” Archie scoffs, which only proves Jughead’s point. He groans again, but this time it’s because his eyes have been closed too long and he’s attacked by visions of Betty swimming in circles around him, moving in the water like a mermaid luring a sailor to death.

When he brings his head out of his hands, Archie is watching him with understanding eyes.

“It’s why it’s called a crush,” Archie offers, shrugging. “It sucks.”

But Jughead is thinking about the river, and how he was too worried to swim out to where the water turned too dark to see the bottom; all that latent symbolism is finally catching up to him. But, still.

Should something happen on the way out, not knowing if he was able to touch down just wasn’t worth the risk.

.

.

.

Jughead’s solution is true to form.

Rather than follow a lick of Archie’s advice, Jughead doubles down on his theory that no good will come of allowing himself to spend more time with Betty. While his best friend barrels on full steam ahead with Veronica, starting to see her practically every night, Jughead retreats further and further into his hotel room.

He even gets invited to go to dinner and dancing with Archie and Veronica and, _wink, dude, Betty will probably be there,_ but he ignores the text until late and then sends a weak reply of _sorry, didn’t see this till now._

Perhaps it’s his old friend Abandonment Issues rearing its ugly head again, but he decides that the more he sees her, the more he likes her, which won’t do. When he follows that train of thought, the more drawn to her he is, the more occupied his thoughts are with a very simple _desire_.

And that scares the shit out of him.

Because no matter how many times he circles back to it, there’s no way for him to walk away from this without becoming more miserable than he was already. He’s just not Archie; he’s always been all or nothing. He can’t casually date someone, nor can he wrap his head around the idea of _not_ thinking ahead.

He’s already afraid of a good thing, but what happens when that good thing has no good ending? It’s not star-crossed, it’s not romantic; it’s just impractical.

So he throws himself into his writing, and luckily, it welcomes him with open arms.

That is, until it doesn’t. His outline takes shape, his characters find their moxie—and then he hits a snag four chapters later, around the same time that his character gets his first real lead and starts to work with the police. Namely, his love interest. He deletes, rewrites, sacrifices whole scenes—even the ones with the bit of dialogue he really liked—but he can’t seem to shake the indecision that has begun bleeding through.

If he thought about it any harder, if he even just squinted at it, he probably wouldn’t be able to deny the resemblances between his character’s issues and his own. Which is exactly why he chooses not to analyze such realities—though at least Jughead doesn’t have a fresh dead body on his hands.

Still, he is just as plagued by the sad, sharp eyes of the blonde riddle in his book—and every time he tries to fix it, or grow their relationship realistically, he ends up wanting to throw his computer across the room.

This is junior year of college all over again, only much worse. But if he’s not thinking about solutions for his love arc, he’s thinking about book reviews and his publisher wanting a book tour for the sequel, and the inherent pressure of a follow up novel, and comments online, and even the film rights speculation floating around on Reddit—a far-fetched rumor if he’s ever heard one. Even if there’s something to it, he’s sure he’ll be last to know, and can kiss it goodbye once his sequel hits the stands and tanks as much as he expects it to.

On Thursday morning, he sends off his latest frustration to his editor, hoping she has some thoughts for him, and decides to go buy some snacks. He’s been trying to write in his room lately, but he’s already sick of vending machine candy and he needs a new toothpaste anyway, so he walks to the grocery store, scowling the whole way.

He throws a range of essentials into his basket, and then, hearing JB’s voice in his thoughts, decides to also grab a bit of fruit, lest he fall prey to the supposedly inevitable case of scurvy she’s always hocking him about.

Jughead heads to the drink aisle, and then, with his hands full of soda, nearly barrels into someone turning away from the opposite wine section. “Fuck,” he mutters, as a bottle slips from his hands. He drops down to grab it, but it rolls out and hits the foot of the woman he almost walked into. He glances back up, and is completely unprepared for it to Betty.

She squats down to his level, grinning. “On a health kick, I see,” she says, reaching the bottle of soda first. She picks it up and hands it to him, which he takes after a moment.

“Yeah well, the name Jughead Jones is synonymous with Whole Foods,” he mumbles, straightening. “Thanks. And, uh, sorry for almost running you over.”

“Something a girl always dreams of hearing,” she laughs.

Her hair is down again, and she brushes a smoothing hand against it as his eyes run over her wavy tresses. She looks nice—well, she always looks nice, but today she looks nicer than usual. Maybe it’s the way her hair falls along her neck, or the swishy pink skirt, or the black short sleeve button up, or maybe it’s just because she’s still smiling at him and he’s just too far gone to see past it.

She adjusts the bottle of wine cradled in her arms. “So,” they say at the same time. There’s a fumbling and awkward amount of pausing while they both ask the other to go first, but eventually she tries again.

“So, how have you been? Haven’t seen you in a few days. You missed a fun night of Archie and Veronica’s basically undressing each other on the dance floor, by the way. Never again am I third-wheeling with them.”

He chuckles, cringing at the thought. “Great, now I’m going to have to absolve my eyes of that mental image, so thanks for that. I’m not sorry I missed that, but I didn’t mean to leave you hanging. I just got bit by the writing bug,” he offers by way of explanation.

“And here I thought you were avoiding me,” she says, with something like a nervous grin. “Or got sick of me, maybe.”

“Impossible,” he sighs, and it’s true, even though he has been avoiding her, just not for the reason she thinks. A pang of guilt hits him, hard; it hurts to hear that she’d thought his opinion her was anything less than glowing. Fuck. He’s been an asshole, but he honestly didn’t expect she’d have spared him a passing thought. “I’ve just been busy with the book, I’m really sorry. Got in my own head a bit.”

“Oh,” Betty breathes. Is it relief in her big eyes, or is that just what he hopes to see? “No, no, it’s fine. I’m glad to hear that. Make some good headway, then?”

He shifts his basket in his arms so he can scratch his chin. “Yeah. Kinda,” he says. His eyes, desperate for something to do other than stare hopelessly at her, fall to the bottle of wine. “Bit early for a drink, don’t you think?” He asks, intending for it to be a joke, but he thinks of his father as he says it and it comes out sounding all wrong.

Betty blinks down at the bottle. “This is just a gift,” she explains, holding it up. “I’m heading up to Hudson today. To get your compressor part, actually. The wine is part of a thank-you; Adam’s letting me come get it right away. He called me when he got back last night.”

Jughead feels instantly suspicious of this Adam person. What’s in it for him to be so helpful? Then he frowns, remembering Kevin’s ominous mumbling about this guy. He’d gotten the impression that he was interested in Betty from that, and that sends a flare of jealousy straight to his stomach. Is this why Betty looks a little dressier than usual? For him?

“So soon?” He asks, swallowing. “You’re ahead of schedule, then.”

Betty lifts a shoulder. “Well, I know how eager you are to get back on the road.”

He wants to punch himself in the face. Wants to tell her he hasn’t been able to get her out of his head all week, especially not after rolling around in the sand next to her while she wears a swimsuit straight from the set of Baywatch. Wants to tell her he has suddenly no foreseeable desire to leave Riverdale, or her.

“I mean, I still have to be in Chicago at the end of the month,” he says slowly, remembering himself. That won’t change, so there’s no point in beating around the bush. “But I’m not…it’s not like I’m rushing out the door.”

It’s as close to _I like you_ as Jughead can get right now, and he’s fairly sure it’s a lost cause to attempt telepathy, but he tries it anyway. Betty smiles softly at him.

(No point in beating around the bush—that is, except for the one labeled: _Jughead’s feelings for Betty._ )

“That’s good to hear,” she says, her lips wrapping around the words in a melodic sort of way.

“Yeah, as we’ve previously covered, turns out Riverdale’s not all bad,” he says, as they start to wander through the aisle. It’s another attempt at cryptically hinting that he likes her, but unsurprisingly, it doesn’t land.

Betty scoffs. “Careful there, I wouldn’t want the town to get a big head.”

“I mean, it’s no _Phoenix_ or _Tallahassee_ , but…” He grins at her rolling eyes. “A little bit of luck, spit, and shine, and it’s well on it’s way to being a real Boise.”

“Look out,” she drawls. She’s getting bolder with her sarcasm; he wonders if he’s rubbing off on her.

She ends up tagging along with the rest of his shopping trip—they debate his taste in toothpaste brands, which Betty points out is the same one her sister buys for her kids, and she tells him that one apple does not actually keep a doctor away and he needs to buy more fruit, so she leads him back to the produce aisle and fills his basket with oranges and something called a _lychee_.

“You sound like JB,” he mutters, as she launches into a monologue about vitamins. “She’s a vegan, now. Me, the human garbage disposal, with her, my legume-loving sister. She’s always on my case about my diet. I don’t know how we’re going to live together.”

Betty glances over, her fingers pausing over a peach. He leans against a large crate of fruit. “That’s the other part of the reason why I have to get to Chicago with the truck. I’m helping her move back to Boston, and she’s gonna live with me until she figures out her next move. Which, if she’s anything like me, means she’ll be sleeping in my home office till she’s 30.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You’re a best selling author, and you’re 26.”

He squints right back at her. “Did you google me?”

She burns bright red and pretends to be very interested in procuring the right peach. “No,” she says. “Okay, yes. But after you revealed yourself as JP Jones, I just wanted to confirm. I’m a big believer in fact-checking citations and bibliographies, Juggie.”

There she goes with the nickname again; the one that sends his heart into a sickeningly gushy plunge. He hates it, and he loves it.

He wiggles his eyebrows at her. “Find anything incriminating on me during your journey into the deep web?”

She tips her chin into the air. “You’ll just have to see,” she sniffs, and then snags his shopping basket from his arms and deposits the peaches she’s spend the last few minutes selecting for him. He stands there for a moment, his lips lifting as he watches her move on to inspecting an ear of corn.

Betty glances back over her shoulder with a teasing grin, and his breath catches. She’s so beautiful.

“What are your thoughts on America’s most popular vegetable?” She asks, holding the corn up to the light.

“I think I don’t have anywhere to cook anything, no matter how prevalent it is to the industrialization of American farm,” he says, pushing off from his perch and snatching the corn from her hands. He tosses it back into its crate. “I’m cutting you off, Cooper. No more produce.”

“Well, _I_ have a place to cook,” she says quickly, and then blushes. His eyes widen; it almost sounds like she’s inviting him to dinner, but then she picks the corn back up and continues. “I could—maybe I want it for myself.”

He puts his hands in the air. “Fine, fine. I mean, it’s your complicity with the corruption of factory farms, but fine.”

“Says the guy with a basket full of high-fructose corn syrup,” Betty points out, her eyes rolling. “And sorry, what is your logic here? I buy organic corn, therefore I support factory farming?”

“There is no ethical consumption under capitalism,” Jughead says, a finger in the air. “So I might as well go out with my guns slinging, some soda in hand.”

“Then you’ll leave me and my opinion on corn alone,” she replies, gathering a few ears into a little brown bag. He puts on a look of faux pretense, but takes his shopping basket back and transfers the vegetables and her bottle of wine into it. When she starts to protest him carrying her groceries, he just walks ahead.

What Jughead intended to be a way to kill time has now turned into a full hour, but at this point he’s dragging his shopping trip out as much as possible. When they part ways, Betty will go to see this Adam person, and give him this bottle of wine and maybe even smile at him in her soft, secretive kind of way, and then probably fall into his arms and—

“Juggie?” Betty asks, freeing him from the _Gone With the Wind_ -esque nightmare playing out in his thoughts.

“Hm?” He asks, snapping back to attention.

Betty is reaching back into his basket, and he realizes they’re at the check out counter. “I should probably get going,” she says, glancing at the large clock hanging over the grocery line. He has no excuse to delay her any longer, so he nods and they move forward into line. She deposits her wine and corn onto the conveyer belt, greets the woman behind the register by name, and starts digging through her purse for her wallet.

She waits for him while he pays for his groceries, and then they both head for the exit silently. Once again, he feels so stupid for avoiding her this past week. He should’ve been enjoying what little time he has with her, rather than falling victim to the self-fulfilling train wreck of his life.

He walks her to her car, gives her a little wave of goodbye as she slips into the driver’s seat, and turns on his heel. And then— “Hey, Juggie?”

He spins around absurdly fast. Betty is leaning out of her window, her arms folded out over the top of the door. “Yeah?”

“Do you want to come with me?” She asks, tilting her head at him. “We can get the compressor out of the way and then go get a nice lunch, or something. Hudson is cute, there’s lots of stuff to do.”

His brows furrow, as this is at odds with his presumptions about Betty’s nice outfit and the bottle of wine and the interested man waiting to meet with her. But he’s already shot himself in the foot once, so he’s not about to do it to the other.

“Sure,” he says, in what he hopes is a casual voice. He deposits his bag of groceries—luckily nothing perishable—into the back of the car and then comes around to the passenger’s side.

He settles in beside her, a warm feeling in his chest and something odd stuck in his throat.

Betty beams at him, and then turns onto the open road.

.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i have finished mapping my outline for this fic, and i'm clocking it at approximately 19-20 chapters. which is a lot, especially for me, because up until my other fic, the winged beast, i'm pretty sure i'd never written more than 15k words before. 
> 
> but i want to do this right, so i'm following through. 
> 
> pretty pretty please let me know what you thought of this chapter! jughead has absolutely been struck by cupid's bow, which is an interesting challenge to write (and GET right) because he can be so surly towards his own emotions. 
> 
> next up: a cute little day trip, some interesting propositions for betty, and more!


	8. Chapter 8

_And I'm getting older, too_

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Jughead’s fingers run smoothly along the dashboard of her car as if greeting an old friend.

“I love the chrome in vintage cars,” he says softly, firm admiration mixing with his typical surliness. “Every little detail was just so…cohesive. Now it’s like each part of a car competes with itself.”

“I know what you mean,” Betty agrees, allowing a moment of appreciation for the way he meets her smile. She feels silly with how happy she is just to be around him again. But is it so surprising? She hasn’t been able to keep him from her thoughts for very long, especially since their day at the river. And she’s known about her attraction to him from the start, though it does feel like absence has made the heart grow fonder in this case. 

Heat flashes through her at the memory of his muscled arms slicing through the water, so she fiddles with the radio settings in hopes of distracting herself. “Though speaking of anachronism, I _do_ have an aux chord, if you want to play more of that road trip playlist?”

Jughead snorts and nods, taking the little black cord from her deftly. He plugs it into his phone, reaches forward for the stereo, and Leonard Cohen’s gravely thoughts come to life.

“I’m surprised Archie let you make a driving playlist, considering he’s the musician,” Betty notes.

In the background, she’s dimly aware of Leonard Cohen's rasping lyrics.

_(And just when you mean to tell her that you have no love to give her, she lets the river answer that you've always been her lover.)_

Jughead seems distracted by his thoughts, but hearing her, he flicks his eyes across the car.

“That he is,” Jughead says, “but he also has a very limited scope, so to speak. He often forgets that there are singer-songwriters dating back further than 1992. Music school helped, but as of this week, he still thinks Stevie Nicks is a guy, so clearly not entirely.”

“Yikes,” Betty hisses through a giggle.

“I mean, it almost makes the fact that he’s actually a decent musician all the more impressive,” Jughead says, sighing. He rolls down his window and sticks his head out the window, letting the whizzing of the road filter through the car.

It’s still morning, but Betty can tell it’s going to be a hot day. Humidity has been gathering for days, with the first series of summer storms forecasted over the next few weeks, but clearly today promised to be the start.

Along the horizon, gray clouds swell and greet.

She prefers driving with the windows open, but she turns on the A/C she’d installed anyway, while Jughead removes his beanie in order to run his fingers through his hair. He leaves the hat in his lap, giving Betty a long moment to rake her eyes over the black curls before returning them to the road.

“You have nice hair,” she finds herself saying, and Jughead’s hands immediately reach for the hat again. They hover over it, and then seem to settle for squeezing the brim.

“I know the hat is stupid,” he mumbles, eyes downcast.

“That wasn’t what I meant at all,” Betty says hastily, realizing this beanie is a sensitive subject.

He shrugs. “No, it is. It’s just one of those habits I’ve never broken, like much of my latent adolescent angst.”

Betty disagrees, and tells him as much, but he waves her off and changes the subject. “So, what’s on our docket today?”

She feels a flutter at _our_ , and tries to hold it down. “Well, first is my meeting with the Chisholms. We should get that out of the way, I think.” At his inquisitive look, she adds, “I have a monthly meeting with Adam and his father. My dad and Adam’s dad were best friends, so they like to check in with me.”

“Were?” Jughead repeats, and Betty realizes that she’s never actually told him about her own father. She supposes it had to come up sometime, and there’s no point in lying.

“My dad died,” she says softly, her hands gripping the steering wheel. “Just over a year ago.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine, really,” she assures him, and finds that it’s the truth. She hasn’t always been able to talk about this, but she feels surprisingly calm now. “He was sick for a long time. Cancer. In the end…I’m glad he isn’t suffering anymore.”

“Yeah,” Jughead says sympathetically.

“I learned everything I know from him,” she adds, breaking into a smile at the memory of childhood evenings spent under the hood of a car. “I didn’t plan on moving back to Riverdale, but now…the garage is my way of staying close to him, I think.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t plan on moving back?”

She inhales. “I went to Columbia for school, majored in English with an emphasis for Publishing. I wanted to be a book editor. After graduation, I got an internship out in Somerville—”

“Somerville, Mass.?” Jughead repeats, his eyebrows rising. “Outside of Boston? You were in my hood?”

“Just the summer of 2014,” she says, halfway through a sigh of nostalgia. “I liked it. Not so big as New York, but still a real city.”

“It’s a great place,” Jughead agrees, scratching his jaw thoughtfully. “Why’d you leave?”

“My sister came to visit me, towards the end of my internship. I was so excited to see her and show her around—my boss had made me a formal job offer, I had an apartment I really liked, and was even making friends. But at the end of her trip, she told me that our parents hadn’t been honest with me about how sick our dad really was. They’d said his cancer was in remission, but it didn’t stay that way. They relied on Polly a lot, and she was feeling really overwhelmed—she had this two toddlers, she was trying to go back to work…”

She lets out a long breath as the rest of the story bubbles up. “Mom and Dad had bills, and Polly’s in-laws wouldn’t offer any financial help, and the garage was struggling. Polly said I should come back, not only to help, but because she didn’t want me to be blindsided should things get worse. Which they did, eventually.”

“I’m sorry, Betty,” Jughead says, and she shakes her head.

“I’m just glad I wasn’t away in his final years. It was good to have had that time with him.” Whatever else she may now feel, this is the truth. She _is_ grateful for what she had, and with a few exceptions, probably wouldn’t do anything differently.

“Thanks for telling me, then,” he says, fiddling with the edge of his beanie.

She looks over, her breath hitching. “Well, thanks for listening.”

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.

As they roll up towards the Chisholm Garage, the sky rumbles ominously. Rain looks imminent now, but she’s distracted by greetings from the mechanics milling about. “Hey Betty!” One guy, Raj, calls, as he runs a washcloth over a glistening Audi A6. “Adam’s in the back!”

She gestures in thanks, and heads in through the garage, Jughead on her heels as he tugs his hat back on. She finds Adam leaning over the open hood of a new BMW, having muffled conversation with a fellow mechanic. He looks up when he hears them approaching, his face breaking into a big grin as his arms wrap her in a hug.

“Hey! Or should I say, howdy?” He greets.

“How was Nashville?” She asks, pulling back slightly.

Adam shrugs and gives a little fluff to his auburn hair. “Fun. You missed out, though. You know the offer always stands—you’re always welcome on a Chisholm family trip.”

“Next time,” she says, angling so that she can beckon Jughead over. He’s been hanging back with a frown, eyes moving between them. “Adam, this is Jughead. It’s his truck I’m getting the compressor for,” Betty explains, as Jughead hesitantly steps forward.

Even Adam, normally friendly towards everyone, seems to be sizing Jughead up as he pulls one hand from his pockets and reaches for a handshake.

“Nice to meet you. Jughead, is that your name?” Jughead nods, and Adam glances at her from the corner of his eye. “Well, I was happy to help out. Anything for my girl Betty.” 

Jughead raises an eyebrow when Adam turns back to him. “Betty said it was a ’77? F-150, right? Wow. That’s a real blast from the past.”

“It’s a beautiful truck,” Betty supplies, because it almost sounds like an insult and Jughead appears on the cusp of an award-winning scowl.

“You always had more of an appreciation for the oldies than me, Betts,” Adam chuckles, gesticulating at the pristine BMW next to them. He shrugs. “Alright, shall we?”

“Sure,” Betty agrees. “Where’s your dad? In the office already? I got him his favorite Merlot.”

“It’s actually just us today, Betts,” Adam replies, taking the bottle of wine from her. Jughead, who had been inspecting the rafters of the garage with interest, quickly swivels his neck back towards them. “He has some business in Albany this afternoon that couldn’t wait. But I’ll be sure to pass it along to him.”

“Oh,” Betty says, because she’s never had a meeting at the garage without Mr. Chisholm present. She remembers Kevin’s musings on Adam’s feelings for her, and suddenly feels like she needs to defend it to Jughead, which is silly. She shouldn’t feel guilty for taking a business meeting.

Perhaps it’s because she suspects Kevin is right about Adam, and maybe it’s because she doesn’t want Jughead to think it’s mutual.

She meets Jughead’s eye, and gives him a reassuring smile. “We’ll just be a little while.”

“Do your thing. I’ll wait by the car,” he says, and slinks off.

“Ready?” Adam asks, cocking his neck at her. Betty realizes she’s been staring at the back of Jughead and shakes her head to clear her thoughts. He leads her back into his office, and she settles into a chair across the desk.

“I know it’s kind of weird to do our monthly without Dad, but we weren’t expecting you so soon, and he really had to take care of this shipment coming from Albany,” Adam explains, leaning back in his swivel chair.

Feeling slightly relieved that meeting with Adam alone wasn’t something he planned, Betty nods. “I know I moved up the date, but my friend is really on a deadline to get back on the road, and I don’t want to be working up against it. Thanks for letting me come by today instead.”

Adam looks thoughtful. “So, your friend—Jughead, right?—he’s just passing through?”

 _Don’t remind me,_ she thinks. “Yep,” she says instead.

He makes a slight noise in the back of his throat, and then leans forward in his chair, lacing his fingers together. “So, to business. I have two propositions for you, and…hear me out first, okay?”

Betty releases a long breath, feeling nervous.

“I just want to say I could’ve never done what you did, Betty,” Adam says softly. “If I’d lost my dad and my only other employee went back to school and I was running this garage by myself, I would’ve already had a mental break down, or four.” He chuckles, like maybe this is funny, but Betty just feels her anxiety dial up. “I’m in awe of you, really.”

She swallows, forcing the same placating smile that she likes to fall back on, especially when someone brings up the garage or her father. Her fingers, without anything else to do, ease into a familiar vice and curl backwards into her palms. “Thanks.”

Adam’s expression turns serious again. “My dad and I—you know we made a promise to Hal that we would check in with you; look out for his family. That’s why we have these monthly meetings, right? Well, more specifically, he asked us to make sure you and the garage were doing okay.”

Betty nods; this isn’t anything she doesn’t already know, but Adam’s vague recapping makes her hesitant. Adam continues, “But these past few months, my dad and I have noticed…I mean, the compressor, for example. It’s not that I don’t love seeing you or getting your calls, honestly,” he’s quick to add, “but you should have more than one compressor lying around.”

Her head jerks back in surprise at Adam’s frankness. He’s not wrong, but it still stings.

He drops his head, sighing. “I know that sounds harsh, and I’m sure my dad could explain this better than me, but—you’re an incredible mechanic. You and I both know that. But running a garage is a business, Betty, and we think that maybe Hal didn’t prepare you for that.”

“What are you trying to say?” She raises her chin in the air, attempting to appear more confident than she feels.

“Well, we’d like to buy the garage,” Adam replies bluntly, as if giving up pretense.

Her nails are fully digging into her palms now, but in the shock of his announcement, her fingers briefly slip against her skin. “What?”

“Almost nothing would change,” he assures her hastily. “You would still be head mechanic. It’d still be Cooper Garage. We would just…take over some of the managerial stuff, for instance.”

“Managerial stuff?” She echoes.

“Ordering parts, making sure shipments arrive, hiring more mechanics; stuff like that. My dad has been doing this for 40 years, Betts, and we’ve been talking about expanding for a while now. We can give you a great offer. And this way, you can clear out some of the hospital bills in one fell swoop.”

For a sweet bliss of a moment, Betty imagines what it would feel like to have those taken off her shoulders. No more looming debt, no more living in that big house with only her mother, no more—but she stops there.

She couldn’t really be considering this, could she? That garage meant everything to her father; how could she sell it?

“I don’t know, Adam,” Betty says, exhaling shakily. “This garage is my livelihood. It’s…” _The only thing I have left of him,_ she thinks, but cannot form the words.

But Adam seems to understand. He nods slowly, and runs a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Look, just…keep an open mind about it, would you? And I know my dad would really like to make the formal offer himself, so why don’t you take the month to think about it?”

“Alright,” she says tightly. “I have to talk to my mom, but I will think about it.”

There’s a long intermission as Adam looks at her with an expression she cannot place.

“You said there were two propositions?” Betty asks, if only to break the silence.

“Right. Secondly—I heard about you and Trev,” he says, while Betty’s stomach sinks. “I’d honestly be lying if I said I was sorry, but I hope it wasn’t too hard on you.”

He pauses, but when she can’t find anything to say, he goes on. “I’ve known you a long time, Betty Cooper. But with your high school boyfriend coming in and out of the picture, I never really had my chance. And I’d like to get one in before the next fellow throws his hat into the ring, which I’d guess won’t be long, if it hasn’t already happened. I know what they say about business and pleasure, and my dad definitely didn’t want me to do this today, but seeing you with that Jughead guy, I think I have to put it out there. I mean, you’re not seeing him already, are you?”

Betty manages a mute shake of the head, and Adam looks relieved. “Well. I hope this doesn’t come as too much of a shock when I say I think we’d be good together. I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“You’re asking me out?” Betty stutters, somehow feeling shocked even though Kevin has warned her about this for years.

She’s not sure why she’s so resistant to the idea—it’s not like Adam isn’t good-looking. It’s not like he isn’t a good person. But they don’t have much in common, beyond being mechanics. And even then, he likes flashy new cars, she has a soft spot for junkers, and feels like that says something. And doesn’t that just make this Trev all over again?

Jughead’s roving, deceptively tender eyes flash across her mind, and she has her answer.

Betty opens her mouth to turn him down, but seeming to guess her response, he beats her to it. “Just…think about it? While you’re thinking about the garage? We can talk about it next month. I’m not in a rush.”

He’s smiling at her so hopefully that she almost wants to tell him she will, but that’s not fair, to keep him hanging. “I’m sorry, Adam. I just don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

Adam’s grin falls, and he sighs deeply. “It’s that other guy, right? You like him?”

“Yes,” Betty admits aloud for the first time, finding the truth comes easily. Something warm spreads across her chest. “But I don’t think we would’ve worked anyway, Adam. You’re like a brother to me.”

He lets out a frustrated chuckle. She appreciates that about him; good-natured even in the face of disappointment. “That’s what I was afraid of,” he says, standing. “Well, I had to try. Tell Jughead he’s a lucky guy.”

She rises from her chair as well, adjusting her purse over her shoulder and not bothering to mention she has no idea if Jughead feels the same way. They shake hands and make goodbyes, but as she’s in the doorway, Adam calls out again. “But really, Betty. Please consider the first offer.”

She looks back over her shoulder. “I promise I’ll think about it,” she says. Her stomach finds a knot.

.

.

.

Jughead is waiting for her by the exit, rather than the car, because it has begun sprinkling. “How’d your meeting go?” He asks, as they reach her Chevy and slip inside. Betty turns on the wiper blades as little flecks of water meet the windshield.

“Okay,” Betty sighs, deciding to leave out the second half of the conversation even though she desperately wants to know what his reaction would be. “Adam and his father want to…buy the garage. They’re looking to expand, but also…they think I’m not running it as well as I could be. They want to take over with some managerial stuff.”

 _“What?”_ Jughead breathes, looking furious. “He _said_ that? Turn the car around, Betty, that’s fucked up. I wanna talk to him.”

“Juggie.” He stops his ranting, and she tries not to smile at how defensive he’s being on her behalf. “It’s fine, really. They’re not wrong.”

“Yes, they are,” he says adamantly. “I’ve been in that garage with you, remember? I’ve _seen_ you at work. Fuck them. You’re running it perfectly.”

“I’m not,” she maintains, with a trickle of frustration. She hates that word, perfect. “If I was, I would’ve already had the compressor part you needed. Or—Joaquin and Kevin are going to Europe for the summer in _two weeks,_ and I haven’t even _started_ looking for someone to replace him temporarily. I don’t know what I was thinking, because now I’m going to need to either extend my hours or close the garage on weekends, which is gonna be a hit on business. So no, Juggie, I’m not running it perfectly.”

Anxiety flickers across her skin, and she re-tightens her grip on her steering wheel until her knuckles are white. Now that she’s said it out loud, it all feels more real. And to his credit, Jughead seems to understand her point, because he doesn’t argue it, which she appreciates. She doesn’t want to be put on a pedestal, especially not by him.

“He still shouldn’t have said it like that,” he says finally, eying her hands. She catches him looking, and tries to relax her grasp. 

“It’s really fine. It’s something to think about. And at the end of the day, I’d rather people be honest with me,” Betty says. Jughead’s eyebrows furrow.

He remains silent beside her, worrying his lip between his teeth.

.

.

.

Their afternoon is spent ducking in and out of little shops; the rain is still light enough for it not to ruin the day, so she follows through on her promise of a nice lunch and antiquing. Jughead finds something to say about nearly every item in the shops, inserting some kind of back story onto each of the dolls or furniture or paintings, and it amuses her to no end.

In the growing heat, Jughead sheds down to his t-shirt and she spends a solid couple of minutes thinking about what's beneath it. She wonders how long she can keep from essentially throwing herself at him, but then he’ll do something like wink at her from behind a particularly creepy doll, and she’ll start giggling again, and the moment will pass.

After a couple of hours, humidity wins out, and the sky opens up.

“We should get back on the road, before this gets worse,” Betty sighs from under an awning. Her skin feels sticky with sweat, and all that time in musty antique shops hasn’t helped.

“Probably,” he agrees, narrowing his eyes up at the dark clouds overhead. They rush back to the car as the rain picks up around them, and drive back to Riverdale with light conversation about Archie and Veronica’s blooming relationship.

She starts to turn off for the exit to his motel, wondering if there’s a way to extend their day. “You wouldn’t want to…make dinner, by chance? I’ve heard corn is your favorite food, after all,” she adds, with a smirk.

“Ha, ha,” he says drolly, but he’s smiling. Her windshield wipers are working in full force against the downpour now. “Yeah, that…I would like that. Corn and all.”

She grins, driving past his motel and on to the grocery store where they’d met earlier this morning, because if she’s making dinner for two she needs more food. They park and run into the store with their arms over their heads, rain pouring down their backs in buckets and laughing. Jughead shakes his head roughly, like a dog splashing in a puddle, and water flies into her face, which only makes her giggle harder. He meets her grin, but his expression is increasingly turning serious.

Then—in a bold move, he reaches forward and pushes the wet hair off her face, which immediately makes her still.

His eyes darken slightly, and he might be moving closer, but the sliding doors open behind them, other people are shuffling in and collapsing their umbrellas—and Betty remembers they’re standing in the entryway of a grocery store under the din of florescent lighting.

(Nicholas Sparks would never.)

Whatever moment was arguably there is quickly gone. When she looks back to Jughead, he’s holding a grocery basket in his hands and waiting for her expectantly, his expression schooled.

“Let’s make this quick,” she says, shivering a little as her damp skin meets the frigid air conditioning. She pulls her phone from her purse, grateful it’s still dry, and finds a recipe from her favorite cooking app. They set to work gathering the necessary produce and miscellaneous items—Jughead makes a skeptical remark at how healthy this is all sounding, but doesn’t otherwise protest—and they finish in record time.

Toni is still working at the grocery checkout, and she fixes them both with a confused look. “Weren’t you two here earlier?”

“Yes, Toni,” Betty says, with a sigh. “This a friend of mine, Jughead.”

Toni blows a pink tendril off her forehead and tips her chin up at Jughead in the same movement. “Oh yeah. Joaquin told me about this guy.”

“Pardon?” Jughead asks, seemingly paying attention for the first time.

“Nothing,” Betty says swiftly, because whatever Joaquin told his best friend, he surely got from Kevin, who has surely nothing but gossip to offer, and she wants none of that getting back to Jughead.

“Mm-hm,” Toni murmurs acerbically, returning to her task of ringing up the groceries. “So, how’s Cheryl doing?”

She doesn’t see Toni often, her being more of a friend of Joaquin than anyone else, but whenever she does, she makes a point to bug Betty into gathering intel on Cheryl’s relationship status. Last time, Betty had insisted that Cheryl wasn’t ready to start dating again, let alone over Veronica. Her impression of that hadn’t changed much, though Cheryl did seem less upset at the sight of Archie than she had with Veronica’s last fling.

“Subtle,” Betty intones.

Toni shrugs. “I’m not known for that.”

“I’ll find out, okay?” Betty tells her, and means it. “But only if we were never here.”

“Don’t tell Kevin, got it,” she replies, not missing a beat. She whips into a grin. “That’ll be $30.67.”

.

.

.

“Is there a reason why that lady can’t tell Kevin we were at the store?” Jughead asks, after they’ve loaded the groceries into the car and are back on the road. The rain hadn’t let up even an inch, and so Jughead had used his flannel to protect their grocery bags from the sheets of water.

“Oh, um,” Betty replies, pretending to focus on driving. “I just…Kevin likes to gossip.”

She blushes furiously, because she’d been about to say _Kevin likes to gossip about my love life,_ which would’ve been right out admitting to Jughead that she likes him. And if maybe there were different circumstances, she would’ve taken that opportunity.

But Jughead is leaving in two weeks, and she’s had nothing but whiplash from his mixed signals thus far, so that’s not a bet she’s yet willing to hedge. 

“Copy,” Jughead says slowly, squinting at her. They finish the drive in silence and, for about the zenith time today, Betty is grateful that her mom is away; this time it’s because she gets to park in the garage and spare them any further onslaught by Mother Nature.

Jughead’s arms wrap around the grocery bags as Betty gathers up his wet flannel. She directs him to the kitchen, while she heads for the laundry area. She peels out of her soaked clothes and fumbles into a basket of clean washings, pulling on a pair of leggings and a soft cotton shirt. Her outfit is too delicate for the dryer, so she hangs it to air-dry and throws Jughead’s flannel into the machine.

She realizes he’ll probably need something dry to wear himself, and has a moment of pivoting around the laundry room before she finds the large Cooper Garage t-shirt that once belonged to her father. She hesitates at the thought of handing it off to Jughead, but no one deserves to sit around in wet clothes, and she’s sure she’ll get it back.

Deciding that he’s skinny enough to fit into her sweatpants, she grabs those, a pair of socks, and goes to meet him. He’s standing at the border of the living room, his eyes sweeping over the high ceilings and family portraits. “Nice digs,” he murmurs. “Maybe I should go into the mechanic business.”

“Yeah, or move to a town where you can live off a baker’s dozen,” Betty replies, which makes Jughead snort.

“Minimum wage joke, nice,” he says, following her into the kitchen.

“This is actually my paren—Mom’s house though,” Betty clarifies, much to Jughead’s sudden distress.

He flashes her a look of mild panic. “You could’ve warned me I was going to meet the Mrs.,” he says, glancing around worriedly, as if Alice Cooper is about to leap out from behind the couch and accuse him of corrupting her daughter. Which, if she were being honest, probably wouldn’t be far from the truth.

“My mom is out of town this week,” Betty says, pressing her lips together to hide her smile. Jughead absorbs this with flexing eyes and visibly relaxes, leaning against a counter.

She has a fluttering moment of distraction, because there’s something about the way his body stretches out devil-may-care that makes her eyes drop to the brief flash of damp skin at the hem of his shirt.

“Um. Anyway, not that I don’t love the grunge look, I think you’ll probably want these. I can put your other clothes in the dryer while I make dinner,” she says, handing him the pile of clean garments in her arms.

“Tropes: game, match, set,” he mumbles as he sets off for a bathroom to change. Betty blushes, because she might as well have offered to get him out of his wet clothes, as if they live in some kind of rom-com.

He returns with a blank look on his face. His soaked beanie sits on the top of the outfit in his arms, and in the time it takes for her to add his clothes to the dryer and pin up his hat to air out, Jughead has started unpacking the groceries.

It’s a shockingly sweet moment of domesticity, and Betty briefly allows herself to enjoy the sight, let alone where her imagination takes her beyond that. If things were different, if they’d met when she was living in Boston or he’d moved to Riverdale—would this be their life? Would they be together? Would she even have kissed him yet?

And then he turns around, and she realizes with a giggle that she’s given him her old high-school sweats. The word VIXEN is printed in big letters on his ass, so she has to slap her hand over her mouth to stifle her sniggering.

It’s unsuccessful; Jughead glances over, looking mildly alarmed. “What? Did I do something wrong?”

“Nope,” she chirps, bouncing over to him in the kitchen.

“So what can I do to help?” He asks, after watching her suspiciously. Betty comes around to his side of the island and pulls a large pot from a cupboard.

“Fill that up with water for the corn,” she instructs, while she gets to work with knives, a cutting board, and the tomatoes. When Jughead returns from setting the water on the stove, she hands him an onion to chop.

Halfway through dicing the onion, his eyes start to water, and he takes a break to blink his eyes up at the ceiling. “So if you’ve only been living here a few months, where were you before?” He asks, glancing at her. “Just trying to paint a full picture of the mysterious Betty Cooper.”

“I don’t think anyone has ever called me mysterious before,” Betty sighs, using the knife to scrape the vegetables into a bowl. She puts down her cutlery and meets his gaze with resignation; somehow, she knew they’d finally get to this. “I was living with my boyfriend.”

Jughead, who had been stealing a bite of the tomato slices she’d just cut up, begins to cough loudly. He flattens his palm against his chest and beats it a few times as he sputters through the moment.

“Sorry,” he says finally. “Went down the wrong pipe. Uh, cool. So, when am I going to meet this…boyfriend?”

“ _Ex_ -boyfriend. I should’ve been more clear,” Betty says, biting her lip. Was she imagining it, or did he sound suspiciously _too_ nonchalant? He’s so hard to read, let alone tell if he’s even interested—especially after he disappeared on her this week—but with their little moments all day, she’s started wondering if she’s not so unrequited. She slaps his hand away from reaching for another tomato piece. “And stop eating these, or we won’t have enough for sauce.”

Jughead licks his lips and has the decency to look guilty, but at the last moment, sneaks a smirk her way. She rolls her eyes once again, but settles for handing him a cheese shredder and a block of parmesan.

“So,” he says, in that strange voice again, “what happened? Between you and the ex?”

She glances his way, and he immediately backpedals. “I don’t know why I asked you that. You don’t have to tell me, obviously.” He’s now determinedly focused on shredding cheese.

“It’s alright, Juggie,” she hears herself saying. The words continue to come despite her better judgment. “I’m just not great at talking about it. Or a lot of things. I get anxious and can’t…” She trails off as the familiar staccato of dread reappears.

She hears her heart thumping in her ears as Jughead’s hand finds measure on her arm. She realizes he’s abandoned his task and standing awfully close all of a sudden. She swallows and steps back so that she can find something to busy herself with.

If she doesn’t occupy her hands while she talks about Trev, she’ll fall back on destructive habits. It’s one of the coping mechanisms that actually works, so Betty settles into the motions of setting up the vegetable spiralizer and prepping the zucchini.

“But…I think avoiding it is just making it worse, so I should try. Trev…was great. _Is_ great. We dated in high school, and broke up when I went to college, but when I moved back, it was so hard with my dad and family that…it just seemed easy to lean on the past. And he’s so sweet, and so nice, but I felt like I was dating myself sometimes. We never joked around, or talked about anything too serious. It just was boring, after a while.”

She looks up; Jughead’s eyes are narrowed thoughtfully. “Anyway. We had a lot of issues, and I wanted to break up with him for a while. But really, the main problem was…that Trev never wanted to leave Riverdale. He likes it here. I knew it would come up eventually, but I somehow wasn’t ready for it when it did.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighs and forces herself to meet his gaze. “He proposed,” she says quietly, dropping her eyes. “And I…had a panic attack on the spot.”

“Shit,” Jughead says.

Betty is silent for a moment as she takes a few measured breaths. “I just…all of a sudden, I saw myself turning into my sister, who turned into our mother. Who never left Riverdale, who married their high school sweetheart young, who popped out two kids and a white picket fence. And I knew if I didn’t say no then, I would never say no again. I would be here forever.”

She glances up, and sees him nodding along solemnly. “You were brave,” he says.

“I was just honest.”

“It’s the same thing,” he insists. He pauses, running his tongue along his teeth. Rain thunders down along the roof, echoing the rhythm in her heart. “Betty, if you don’t want to be in Riverdale, why are you still here?”

“I can’t leave,” she says simply. “I just can’t.”

He moves closer. “Why not? Why can’t you sell the garage to these Chisholm people? You trust them, right? Isn’t it kind of the perfect solution?”

“Because my family needs me,” she says, her voice hitching. “Because I can’t just _leave_. Because we have medical bills, and my mom was living here in this big house alone, and my sister has her hands full. Because the garage is all I have left of my dad. My grandfather built the business himself, to give something to his son, who gave it to me. How could I just walk away? How could I sell that? Sell our memories?”

“But it’s not what you want,” Jughead says softly, his hands finding purchase on her own. “Betty, you already got a job offer in publishing once, I bet you can get it again. You have options. You have connections. Or, hell, even  _I_ have connections. Let me help.”

“You don’t get it.” Betty shakes her head furiously, pulling her hands away from him and wrapping them around her arms. She sees the twins’ faces, her sister’s, her mother’s. They need her. It takes all of her willpower not to curl her fingers into fists.

“I don’t get having to make a hard decision about separating what I want and need from what my family wants and needs? _Really?_ I thought you read my book,” he sighs, throwing a hand in the air.

She looks over as it clicks into place. “The part about his father?”

Jughead nods solemnly. “Art imitating life. I had to cut off contact with my dad a few years ago, when he got his _third_ DUI arrest and went to prison for it,” he replies tersely. “It wasn’t easy, but I had to do it for me and my sister. I bailed him out way too many times and he never once fucking changed. It’s different, but _yeah_ , I understand what it’s like to shoulder a responsibility that isn’t mine.”

She stares at him, and then, to her own horror, breaks out into a sob. Jughead’s arms are around her in a flash as she bursts into a fit of crying. “It’s okay,” he whispers, while she mutters incoherently about how _she can’t, she can’t, she can’t_ —but can’t _what_ , because she no longer knows.

Can’t sell the garage? Can’t leave Riverdale? Can’t tell him what she feels around him? It’s the bursting dam of a year’s worth of thoughts, and she can hardly breath through it. He rocks with her gently, murmuring encouragement and hushed mantras. She feels her world pull back, acutely aware of his body against her own.

Halfway through the tears, she wants to throw herself into something physical—let herself act on the desire she’s been stifling—but she can’t quite make herself do it. She can’t kiss him like this, red-eyed and blubbering, or use him to escape her own thoughts. It’s not fair to either of them.

Outside, it’s still raining.

She settles for tucking herself against his neck as her sniffling becomes more infrequent. “It’s okay,” Jughead says again, his voice sounding somewhat broken. His fingers leave light touches of gooseflesh along her arm. “It’s okay.”

.

.

.

When her eyes are finally dry, they untangle themselves. Betty rubs the heel of her palms into her cheeks, wiping away any remnants of tears. “Sorry—” she starts.

“Don’t apologize,” Jughead interrupts, his voice steady.

“But I was going to make you dinner,” she sighs, glancing over at the half-prepared mess of vegetables. “Zucchini noodles and tomato sauce and—”

“Which, while sounds great, we can take a literal rain check on. You’ve had a long day,” he says, slipping back so that he can raid through her cabinets. His head disappears behind an open cupboard, and when he closes it, he’s shaking a box of Mac & Cheese. “I don’t claim to have a lot of culinary affectation, but even a lowly fool can manage this. Go sit, watch something.”

She starts to protest, but he’s shooing her towards the couch and pressing a remote firmly into her hands. After realizing he won’t budge on this, she finds a silly movie to put on and tries to pay attention. 20 minutes in, Jughead is flipping off a light switch and returning with two steaming bowls of macaroni.

“I added the parmesan, since it was already shredded,” Jughead says, when she glances over in surprise at the taste, the spoon still in her mouth. He scratches at his neck. “And a little pepper. That’s how my sister liked it, pre-veganism.”

He gets comfortable on the couch and leaves an opening for her to lean into him, should she want it. She does.

Betty rests her head against his chest, eating in silence while Jughead makes snide comments about the characters on the screen. He’s seen this movie before, and apparently has a lot of thoughts on it.

She tilts up at him, taking in his still-damp hair, the television glow reflected in his eyes, and the soft expression he has when he returns her gaze. He seems like he wants to say something, but instead his lips twitch into a smile.

Betty is disappointed, but then again, she has some things she would like to say too. Things she would like to do.

But on the off chance she’s reading things wrong, this is a moment she doesn’t want to spoil. So she turns her head back to the screen, focuses on the rise and fall of his chest beneath her ear, and the heat of his body through his clothes.

Feeling hyper aware of her own heartbeat, she tries to concentrate on her meal.

Betty realizes she can’t remember the last time anyone made her dinner.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think this is my longest heart rise chapter yet. it might've been *too* long but like i've got so much i wanna cover. but hope you liked it! i've been sick off/on this week so ideally it's not incoherent through the cold meds.
> 
> anyway, listen. when i said slow burn, i did mean it!! but boy do i love spending time with plot and slow development. at least--you may have noticed i changed the rating. so. there's that? wink wink wink etc
> 
> also, i saw that toni topaz is coming to the show, and while she wasn't in any of the comics i read (stopped about 10 years ago) i got the impression she'll be cheryl's love interest. so added a pinch of that bc i love cheryl and feel bad about breaking up cheronica in this fic.
> 
> also also, there's been a bit of interest in a listening playlist, so i'll be compiling that soon. for now, the recommended song is: suzanne by leonard cohen 
> 
> pretty pretty please let me know what you thought! this was a big chapter but an important one for betty. i'm a little behind on my replies (will try to get them done this afternoon) but really, reviews mean so so so much to me, and are especially encouraging/motivating when a snag is hit or i doubt my plans etc etc etc. 
> 
> :)
> 
> edit: also--i'm looking for a beta. grammatical editing is always appreciated, but mostly i'd like to bounce my ideas off someone and not just shout into a vacuum for a week and then post a chapter. so if you're game (and can handle me dumping 5k words on your feet and wanting to talk about it immediately and at length--i'm a lot) pls shoot me a message on tumblr. same user name!


	9. Chapter 9

_I took my love, I took it down_  
_I climbed a mountain and I turned around_  
_And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills_  
_Well, the landslide will bring it down_

.

.

.

Betty is staring down at him, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. “Hi,” she says quietly, and Jughead can only think, _say hi back. Say hi back._ But no words come out, because her pupils are blown wide and her face is but a breath from his own and he can’t form the sentence.

Her fingers dance along the cut of his jaw, and he only has a moment to murmur, “what are you—” before her lips are on his. It’s soft, a kiss so gentle it’s more of a question than a statement.

“Is this okay?” She whispers, pulling away slightly. He responds by wrapping his arms around her waist, drawing her back against him and meeting her halfway with a deeper assertion that it is definitely all kinds of _okay_. She shifts atop him, her legs straddling over his hips, and he can do nothing but kiss her with everything he’d like to be saying.

It’s not the feverish clashing of lips that he’d been expecting, but rather, a slow, lazy exploration of the shape of their mouths. He trails his fingers across the small of her back as she releases a sound of contentment; he wonders what he can do it to turn it into a full moan.

He doesn’t quite understand where they are—the room is dark and almost amorphous—but he’s not going to spend much time questioning it. He doesn’t give a shit where this is happening as long as it’s happening. They could be on fucking Mars for all he cares.

Her hands are everywhere and nowhere, and then suddenly, they’re somewhere very specific. Her fingers feather down his stomach slowly, the flat of her palm undulating lightly against his skin. It seems her hand is moving downwards to the one place he desperately wants her.

As she’s about to reach her destination, rather than slip her hands far under the fabric of his pants, she gives a sharp snap to the elastic of his boxers.

Apparently, she likes teasing him here as much as she does in conversation. He meets her gaze, finding the green as dewy and fresh as a summer field—and completely at odds with the mischievous glean in her eye. He tuts at her disapprovingly. She giggles, and with a grunt, he flips them over. If that’s how she wants to play, he can step up to pitch.

Her toes curl against his legs as he presses her into whatever soft cushion lies beneath them, his mouth moving from her lips, to her neck, to the top of her breast, all the while she hisses _yes, please, yes,_ and then—

Jughead’s eyes fly open, his breath stuttering.

_What the fuck?_

He blinks against the darkness, the Cooper living room illuminated by nothing but the red glow of an empty Netflix screen. He squints as his vision adjusts, watching the little logo bounce across the television for a few moments. Jughead starts to sit up, but freezes when something shifts alongside him and murmurs an undecipherable request.

He glances down. Betty Cooper is still curled against him, fully asleep, her knees tucked up and one hand laid flat against his chest.

His head falls back against the couch cushion, still reeling from the fact that had been a fucking _dream_ when it had felt so _real_ and he’s completely at a loss for what to do now. On the one hand, he kind of has to pee. And, more pressingly, he’s still got blood rushing southwards from that very vivid dream and Betty’s proximity certainly isn’t helping anything.

On the other hand, he has no inclination to move, because he may never get this moment back.

He might never know what it feels like to wake up alongside her under the guise of dawn, may never stretch his arm across her stomach and pull her flush against him, or may never be able to leave touches of sweet nothings along the peach of her skin—but he _can_ enjoy this interim.

 _Peach of her skin?_ He mouths to himself, unsure if that’s something he should write down to use later in his book or if he’s just devolved into some sick sap of a person and should pretend no such thought ever existed. Probably the latter.

Jughead exhales, scrubbing a hand over his face as he looks at her once more. He’s struck by the simple appreciation of her beauty, of the way her eyebrows arch, as if amused even in the pit of slumber. But as his eyes fall to the slope of her lips, he realizes if he doesn’t get up now, he’s going to have a full, raging erection on his hands and the idea of Betty waking to that is a thought mortifying enough to propel him into action.

Moving as silently and as slowly as he can, he eases himself out from under her. He lays her hand delicately onto the couch, and slips away to find a bathroom. Once there, he counts backwards from ten, and then runs through the list of things that are sure to kill his mood.

 _Archie’s socks,_ he thinks. _That one time JB had food poisoning all over me. Trying to pay my taxes. Stale coffee. Plot holes. The_ smell _of Archie’s socks._

After a few moments of that, he finally feels ready to leave the bathroom. When he emerges, Betty is sitting upright, her knees folded underneath her chin, and rubbing her eyes.

“Ugh, what time is it?” She mutters, when she sees him approaching.

He checks his phone. “Just after 5,” he says.

Betty nods and stretches up to the ceiling, giving him a clear view of the expanse of skin above her leggings. He tries his best to busy his eyes elsewhere. He already feels guilty enough for what his imagination conjured up between them—apparently his underlying quarter-life crisis will include wet dreams, because aging is a sham—and he doesn’t want to be caught ogling her more than he already has.

“Might as well get up. I have to get the garage open early to make up for closing yesterday,” she sighs. “Can’t believe I fell asleep on the couch.”

“ _I_ can’t believe you snore,” he scoffs, much to her offense.

She lets out an indignant huff. “I do not.”

“But how can you really know?” He counters. It’s not strictly true—when she’d fallen asleep first, Jughead learned that she mumbles a bit in her sleep, if anything—but she looks so cute when she pouts and he can’t help it. “I was there. You snore.”

Betty pauses. “Did we both sleep on the couch?”

“Oh, well,” Jughead says, grateful that the dim lighting can mask his flush. He is, under no circumstances, allowed to think about Betty sleeping practically on top of him again. “Yeah. Neither of us made it through the movie, I don’t think.”

She makes a small noise in the back of her throat, but glances away and reaches forward to turn off the television. The room is pitted into further darkness, but she’s rising from the couch and a moment later an overhead lamp flickers on.

He meets her eyes across the room, her fingers still on the light switch. She seems to be waiting for something, or perhaps simply studying him. “Morning,” he says finally, because he can’t think of anything else.

Betty’s lips find their way around a smile. “Good morning,” she returns, and he thinks _yes, it is._

.

.

.

She pads into the kitchen, glancing back at him with surprise. “Did you clean up last night?”

He rubs at his neck. “Just did it while I was waiting for the water to boil. I hope I put everything away in the right place.”

Betty smiles, biting her lip, and he’s seized by visions from his dream. Betty on top of him, her hair tickling his chin— _no. It wasn’t real._

It wasn’t even that graphic; he woke up before it could get past first base, so he’s not sure why it’s gotten so deeply under his skin.

Still. He wishes he had something like a water bottle for a poorly behaved cat; something to spritz himself with in punishment for every time he lets his mind wander there. When he finally returns his gaze from the ceiling, Betty is giving him a funny look. “What?” She asks.

He shrugs, as if he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and moves further into the kitchen while she starts messing around with a coffee maker. She pours some beans in and presses a button; it whirs to life, and while Betty is digging through the fridge, fresh coffee starts dripping into a pot.

“I can make us eggs, if you want,” she says, already setting some onto the kitchen island. “How do you feel about omelettes? Might as well use some of the veggies we bought yesterday.”

“God, please,” he mumbles, as his stomach gurgles lightly. He joins her at the fridge and helps her pull out the remaining produce. She snorts when she finds the Ziploc bag where he’d put the chopped onions.

“I couldn’t find any more Tupperware,” he explains, rolling his eyes. “And hey, it works.”

Betty sighs wearily, and then sets to work with her knife, shredding corn from the cob into a little bowl. Everything else is already more or less chopped up besides the zucchini, so she lets him do that while she pours oil onto a large skillet. They move in silent tandem; she beats several eggs with a whisk while the oil warms, and he pours them their coffee.

Within a few minutes, the first omelette is finished, which Betty insists he have. He eats it on the kitchen island, leaning over his food while he watches her prepare the second batch.

He’s not sure if Betty is one of those rare birds, a true morning person. Bustling around in the kitchen and humming to herself, she certainly seems more chipper than she had yesterday. Not that it wasn’t a low bar, after her tears last night, but, still. She looks brighter than he’s yet seen her.

It might even be happiness, he realizes, when he recognizes the fluttering in his own chest.

She flips her omelette onto her plate, flicks on the radio, and pushes him towards the large dining table. He’s mostly finished, but he drags the rest of his meal out anyway. He likes this moment, so much so that it almost scares him: the two of them having conversation over coffee and eggs while the news of the morning faintly plays in the background.

It feels like something he would conjure for himself as his rawest, most domestic fantasy of what a relationship should be. The only thing that’s missing from said fantasy would be morning sex, and, well. He’s promised himself not to go there again. But he has to hide his grin behind his coffee mug when Betty catches his eye, and he only has one thought: _you’re so gone._

And yet, he still doesn’t know quite what to do about that.

He knows what Archie would say: _dude, you won’t know unless you try!_

He knows what his sister would say: _oh, sorry, is this one of those moments where you need to be told to get off your ass? Get off your ass._

Hell, he even knows what Reggie would say: _bro, what the hell, don’t be chicken. B’aach-b’aach-b’aach._

Surprisingly, the mental image of Reggie making clucking chicken noises in his face isn’t enough to shake him from his thoughts. However, it also isn’t enough to make him see a way out of this. How can this end any way but badly?

Jughead hasn’t even told her how he _feels_ yet and statistically, it’s pretty unlikely it’s mutual. But then again, even he has to admit that her snuggling up against his side last night felt like a big step in the right direction.

He’s still kicking himself for not seizing the moment when he could’ve, but there’s no reasonable explanation for the way she’d looked up at him on the couch except for the one that sparks a dangerous flare of hope.

“What are you thinking about?” Betty asks, interrupting his musings. It shoves him out of the moment, and he glances up and over at her. Her hands are cupped around her own mug and she’s got a tender, slightly concerned expression on her face. “You look very…tortured.”

 _I’d rather people be honest with me,_ he hears her saying.

He takes a sip of coffee, raising his eyebrows into the mug. “Just listening to the radio,” he lies, immediately hating himself for it. Why is this so fucking hard? “A bridge over troubled Congress, etcetera.”

She frowns and looks over at the radio, which is playing a lengthy discussion about corruption in politics. “Yeah, scary stuff.” Turning back, her eyes dart across his face, and he hopes she can’t see through him. She rises from her seat and starts to clear their finished plates. “So…what are you gonna do today?”

“Write, hopefully. But I’ve been kind of blocked again,” he responds, standing up to help her carry things. “I tried to get some help from my editor yesterday, and she replied with a hieroglyphic note that I’ll need some fucking Rosetta stone to decipher.”

“Meaning?” Betty asks, washing off the skillet in the sink. She puts it into a rack, and he grabs a nearby rag and dries it off. They fall into the motions of washing and drying.

Jughead sighs. “Sometimes I’m not sure she understands me, or my process, or vice versa,” he explains. “Lately it’s been a lot of me defending my stylistic choices and her fighting me on most of it. Which is good, I want to be challenged, but sometimes I think we don’t really communicate well.”

“That’s a bummer,” Betty says. “A good editor gets into the mindset of her author, rather than try to force it the other way around.”

“Great, can you tell her that?”

“In your dreams,” she laughs, which only makes him think, _you have no idea._ “But…if it would help…I could give it a go.”

She’s looking at him from up under her lashes and it’s briefly very distracting. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I finished your first book. And you said I was helpful with your last writing block, right?” He nods, and she curls her hands around the edge of the sink. “I _do_ miss it. Editing, that is. Critiquing. Talking about themes and characters.” She looks back at him shyly. “So I could try. If you want.”

“I want,” he says immediately. It comes out sounding completely stupid, but she giggles anyway. “I mean, absolutely. If it’s not too much…I don’t want to put more on your plate.”

“It’s not a hassle if I actually like doing it.” Betty smiles, twisting around so that her back is pressed against the counter. “Why don’t you come by the garage later? I can take a look over what you have on my lunch break.”

He agrees readily. Betty fetches his dry clothes for him from the laundry area, and he changes back into them in the bathroom. He meets his reflection just as he’s pulling the beanie back on, but can’t get it to sit comfortably over his bed-head. Every time he shifts it around, it looks wrong.

He tugs it off and stares at it. He’s technically, even biologically, an adult now, so he has no real answer as to why is he still wearing the hat his mom made him when he was a kid. Gone are the days where he’d think she’d only recognize or want him if he was always wearing it, and he’s past her abandonment, or as much as he can be.

For all he knows, he’s all the better off without her. And he’s been through enough self-evaluation to know what a safety blanket is and how it can manifest, but really, hasn’t this gone on long enough?

Jughead sighs, and shoves it into his back pocket. He wants to see how it feels for a day without it.

He pulls on the rest of his clothes thoughtlessly. Betty is waiting for him by the garage door, dressed in a more typical outfit of blue jeans and a white top. Her hair is half up in a bun and he thinks she looks refreshed and beautiful.

She drops him at his motel and says she’ll let him know when she’s about an hour away from her lunch break, and then he stands there, waving after her until her big blue car is out of sight.

His phone buzzes as he cuts across the parking lot. He opens a text from Archie that simply reads: _Yoo walk of shame!!!!!_

He looks up and around for the offending redhead, and spots Archie waving wildly at him from his second story window. He clasps his hands beneath his chin and does something like a mockery of a pirouette, clearly imitating Jughead’s goodbye to Betty.

Jughead flips him the bird and sends back, **_it’s not what you think_**

 _Yeah right,_ Archie replies. _Saw that shit with my own eyes_

He rolls his eyes and heads in, realizing if he’s going to hash this out, it probably shouldn’t be in the middle of a motel parking lot. Archie is waiting for him, arms crossed and leaning up against his door, so that he couldn’t ignore him even if he tried. “Budge over,” he mutters, shoving on Archie’s shoulder so he can get his key in the lock.

Archie is hot on his trail and quickly follows him into his room. He points at the bed excitedly. “Ha! Made bed. You didn’t sleep here. Du-ude, come on, spill. I’ve been waiting to be right so badly.”

“Right about what, exactly?” Jughead scowls.

“That Betty liked you back, duh. Veronica wouldn’t tell me anything, but I think her _not_ saying anything was like, proof.”

“You talked to Veronica about this?” Jughead moans, dropping his things onto the bed and flopping down alongside them. “Jesus, Arch, why didn’t you just tweet it out while you were at it?”

“Relax, bro, she won’t tell.” Jughead shoots him a dark, flat look and Archie laughs, sinking into the desk chair. “Okay, she might, but does it even matter anymore?”

“Yes, it still matters. I told you, nothing happened. _Really,”_ he adds, at Archie’s skeptical scoff. “I ran into her yesterday at the grocery store, I went with her on an errand or two, and then we made dinner. We fell asleep on the couch watching some dumb movie. That’s it.”

It’s something of a simplification, but it is the truth. Archie stares at him, seemingly working through whether he buys the story or not. Eventually, he seems to decide Jughead isn’t lying and his shoulders droop a little. “You’re serious? I don’t get it, why didn’t you make a move?”

Jughead digs the heels of his palms into his forehead, flat on his back. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “There’s something wrong with me.”

“No shit,” Archie sighs fondly. “Do you want to try setting up another double date thing? One you’ll actually come to this time?”

Jughead pushes himself up on his elbows. “It doesn’t sound like the worst idea,” he confesses. If Veronica knows, and Archie knows, he might as well not fight it, even if it uses up most of his pride to admit it. But after that day at the river, he’s long realized he’ll sacrifice that for Betty, and there’s no going back.

“Good,” Archie declares decidedly. “Okay, I’ll make it happen.”

He nods and falls back onto the bed with a loud exhale. He feels Archie watching him. “This is weird, you being the one with girl problems.”

In spite of himself, Jughead laughs.

.

.

.

Archie leaves after a round of catch up on how things are going with Veronica—very well, apparently, so well that Archie thinks, and Jughead is quoting, that he’s “really falling for her.” He’s sure this can’t end well, but clearly his friend has unlocked some kind of emotional level that Jughead probably never will, so he doesn’t feel totally equipped to judge.

And anyway, Archie is well known for his ability to move on from women, so he’ll probably be fine, come a fortnight.

Jughead showers and changes into clean clothes, though he’s running dangerously low on them at this point. The motel must have a laundry somewhere here, or maybe he can ask Betty if he can use hers. It’s his weakest excuse to see her yet, but he _does_ need to wash his clothes at some point.

He uses the email on the business card for Cooper Garage to send over what he has of his manuscript and notes and shoots Betty a text to let her know. A couple hours later, she replies with a denizen of smiley faces, and lets him know he can come over in an hour.

Utterly unsure what else to do with himself for until then, he figures he might as well make himself useful and get them both lunch. He gets the feeling Betty is still not used to people bringing her meals and there’s a strange joy in the pleased look on her face whenever he’s presented her with food.

So, Pop’s it is. He heads over and greets Pop Tate behind the counter. “Been a bit,” Pop says, as Jughead slides onto a red barstool. “We’d gotten used to seeing you around.”

“’Twas a foolish mistake to stay away, so you’ve got me for a little while longer,” Jughead sighs. “I’ll have a double cheeseburger, fries and pickles to-go. And…uh, do you know what Betty Cooper usually gets?”

“Betty? Oh, grilled cheese and side salad, sometimes fries,” Pop replies, grinning very knowingly at him.

“Then one of those, my good man,” he instructs, drumming his knuckles on the countertop and pretending not to see the smug look on his face. “And two vanilla milkshakes.”

“Coming right up,” Pop whistles, and bustles back along the grill to prepare their food. He doesn’t like it that yet another person has seen through his attempts at appearing not quite as interested in Betty as he truly is, but at this point, he’s about to give up the pretense of subtlety.

While he waits for the food, she texts him and lets him know he can come over whenever and that she’s very excited to talk about things with him, which sends a round of nerves straight to his gut. He chalks it up to the fact that he’s sharing his work with someone whose opinion he really cares about.

He gathers the two white paper bags from Pop, pays, and then heads out. His messenger bag whacks against his hip with his forceful strides, and by the time he reaches the garage, he’s nearly out of breath. He spots Betty milling about in the back and once she spots him, she bounces forward to wrap her hands around his arm so she can tug him into her office.

She looks so adorable and happy to see him that his heart gives a mighty slam against his ribcage. “So glad you’re here!” She says quickly, pushing him into the chair across her desk. “Sit, sit! Okay, I have so many thoughts.”

While Betty starts straightening out the massive piles of paper he’s just noticed, Jughead offers her the bag from Pop’s. “Before we get started, here, I brought us some brain food.”

There it is again—that gentle locking of surprise that fills her eyes. It’s something more tender than usual, and her shoulders rise with something like a quiet inhale. She peeks inside the bag, and when she looks back up, she’s beaming at him. “Grilled cheese and a vanilla milkshake? How did— Did you ask Pop?”

“I noticed you drinking a vanilla shake last time we were there,” he admits, scratching at his neck. “I will freely admit that I got the download from Pop on your usual, however.”

Betty draws a breath, and then scoots her chair back. “Thank you,” she says softly, coming around to his side of the desk. Her lips press gently against his cheek. It’s over far too soon, but it lives on his skin and burns like a branding.

He’s positive she can see the flush that completely takes over his body, but he just clears his throat and tries to focus on the papers she’s now handing him. He stares down at them.

“Yikes. There’s a lot of red on this, Betty,” he says, trying to laugh, but his heart is still hammering loudly and it comes out a little choked.

“I think you might have a semicolon fetish,” Betty says, sipping her milkshake. He finally meets her eyes and thinks there might be a bit of apple in her cheeks. “The red circles are just where I pointed out each one so you can see how many there are.”

He flips through a couple pages and sees that she’s right. There _are_ dozens of semicolons. Damn. “So that one,” Betty continues, leaning across the desk to point at the papers in his hands, “is just the grammatical first pass. It’s really not much. I spent most of the time with the thematic side of things, but we can work on the structure more later.”

Jughead realizes there’s a whole other stack of papers under her folded arms. She passes it to him, and finds it’s a set of typed notes, organized by a highly detailed outline and broken up by sections of themes and characters. “Let me guess: someone was an honor student.”

Betty waves him off, definitely blushing now. “Like I said, it’s fun for me. I didn’t get to everything, since there’s about ten chapters here and an outline and I only had a few hours, but I have a couple of ideas for where to start.”

“Okay then,” he breathes, gesturing for her to begin.

“First of all, I really love the structure of this book, a lot more than the first one. It was such a strong debut, but it also fell back on a lot of safety nets, I think. I mean, when you think of noir, it’s something concrete. It’s the shadow in an alleyway, or the light filtered through blinds, right?”

He blinks at her, nodding.

“So setting it in a city was the right move then, but also…I think you taking it out of there for the sequel is really cool. Bringing the genre into a small town is refreshing, and it’s amazing how you can maintain the grittiness while setting it in the suburbs. I think you could be pushing it, in terms of creepiness, but I do really like the concept of it chronicling the death of an American golden boy, because it makes a really strong metaphor for kind of the downfall of the American dream, right?”

“Thanks. Yeah, that’s what I’m going for…an exploration of cultural isolationism through suburbia,” he says, a bit in awe of how rapidly she’s talking, how quickly she has cut through his expository red tape, and how much she zoned in on his own favorite parts of the book. He’d had to explain this in such depth to his editor that he was starting to question whether or not it was coming across at all.

“But the plot is kind of taking over,” Betty continues, flattening her fingers against the surface of her own copy of notes. “The characters are slave to it, right now, and we need to see more of how it effects them. Like you’ve developed her with this strong sense of justice, but it’s so black and white. He’s such a morally gray character, so I think there needs to be more tension between how differently they view the same situation. I think that’ll fix a lot of your problems with pacing their solving of the mystery.”

He nods, and grabs a pen from the cup on her desk to jot this down in the margins of his copy of notes. “Betty. Jesus, you should be doing this professionally. This is…so great.”

She looks so unequivocally pleased that she seems to lose her train of thought. “Stop, I’m not even done,” she says, biting against a smile.

“Really, I mean it,” he says earnestly. “This is fucked up degrees of helpful.”

Betty takes a big breath. “Well, thank you. Anyway…I feel like their relationship is going in circles. I see their connection, and I really like that you took my advice about adding more female characters, but I don’t understand why two goal-driven people are being so passive with one another.”

His eyes, which had been scanning the text, dart up to meet hers. Something clicks in his chest, like a lock quietly turning open.

“That’s something I’ve been trying to understand too,” he says slowly, as the feeling that this conversation is suddenly turning into what’s been unspoken between them trickles down his back.

“I think the problem is he pulls away too much and too often,” Betty says, after a long pause, and now he’s much more sure they’re not just talking about the book anymore. “It sends mixed signals about what he really wants, even in a story told from his own point of view. She can’t be dragged along through his indecision forever. I mean, that would make anyone hesitant to put themselves out there.”

“He’s been burned a lot,” Jughead explains, swallowing. “Finding out his father was the killer at the end of the first book was incredibly destructive for his already shaky trust issues.”

Betty nods, almost imperceptibly. If they _are_ talking about themselves, then this means he hasn’t been torturing himself for nothing. It means that Betty feels similarly—which makes his stomach sink, because he knows what he has to say next.

“It’s…partially a love story, and I want that to be felt, but I think more than anything it should be fraught. I’m not a big believer in happily ever afters,” he adds, dropping her gaze. “I think it’s counterintuitive to the genre, but also to life. It’s just not realistic, or at least a Hollywood simplification of what closure and ending really means.”

She doesn’t say anything, and when he finally looks up, her hand is cupping her chin, one finger absentmindedly stroking her cheek. “That’s probably true,” she agrees, almost sadly.

He gets the sense that this isn’t what she wanted to hear from him. But he’s been thinking a lot about honesty lately, and the way Betty makes him want to be direct with his own feelings, so to say that he has any opinions about happy endings that aren’t acutely cynical would be a lie. 

She inhales noisily, and then laces her fingers. Her eyes are sharp and decisive. “If it’s going to be a tragic story, their connection has to be much deeper in order to sell it. They have to act, even if they think it’s just something to get out of their systems. Let them enjoy what time they will have.”

His heartbeat is screaming in his ears now. 

“I agree. So you think he should just…go for it?”

Something tugs at her lips, and now he _knows_ that she knows. “Well, it’s not 1950, Juggie. She could do it too, even if she knows it’s temporary. But you just need to…make her feel like it’s not so one-sided.”

“It isn’t,” he says. It seems using code and smoke and mirrors is all he needed to actually get this out there, because he’s apparently still sixteen. “Between the characters.” 

She looks at him as if all her coyness has caught up to her at once and she’s realizing the simple truth of what they’re really saying. This is the hump they haven’t been able to get over; an equal fear of what it means, how it’ll end, and what that’ll do to them.

 _There must be a joke in here somewhere,_ he thinks. _Two control freaks walk into a bar._  

He licks his lips and gathers his courage. “Betty—” 

But her phone chimes loudly between them, and holding onto a nerve is like trying to hold onto smoke. It slips from his fingers as Betty’s attention darts onto the lit up screen. She frowns as she reads the message. 

“What is it?” He asks, craning his neck slightly.

“Veronica,” Betty sighs, clicking her phone to black. “She wants me to go bowling with her and Archie tonight.”

“You don’t want to? You don’t like bowling?” This is surely Archie’s doing, because only he knows that bowling is one of the few things Jughead actually enjoys doing. This must be the promised double date, and he deflates at the idea that she already doesn’t want to go.

“No, I like bowling. I just don’t want to third wheel _The Only Lovers Left Alive_ again,” she explains, with a slight roll of her eyes.

“I got that invite too,” he finds himself saying, which is true, even if it wasn’t in such specific terms. “I was gonna go. So you wouldn’t be. Third wheeling, I mean.”

She gleans his way, head tilted. “You’ll actually show up this time?”

“Only if you’ll be there,” he says firmly, boring his eyes into her. He means it to be a declaration, and he hopes she understands. 

Finally, he seems to have said the right thing, because her face breaks out into a shy smile. “Okay.”

He feels like he can breathe again. “Okay,” he echoes. “It’s a date.”

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk why but something about plot holes being a sexual turn off for jughead just really gets to me 
> 
> anyway!!! burn baby burn / don't kill me / at least we're getting somewhere!
> 
> listening playlist for this chapter: crazy love by van morrison! keeping up the vintage feel. we also reached the end of landslide lyrics, and thus about the halfway mark of the story. 
> 
> special thanks to alicia and saralisa, who valiantly offered to be my betas and let me share my ten thousand thoughts with them. they are the _best_ and really helped shape up the rest of the story and i hope you guys all like it!
> 
> i continue to be so touched by all the reviews, it means so much! you guys are the reason i am writing so fast, i think, so please drop me a comment if you can and let me know what you think.
> 
> (especially since this is technically the first time i wrote smut) (and we didn't even really get there this chapter but i have plans) (but i was nervous to get to this point!) (ramble ramble)


	10. Chapter 10

_I wonder about the love you can't find_  
_And I wonder about the loneliness that's mine_

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Veronica asks Betty to meet up at her apartment before the double date, even though they have plans to drive themselves separately. But Ronnie sounded very cryptic over the phone, so there’s no hesitation.

And, like the good Cooper girl she is, Betty arrives promptly at eight as requested. When she knocks, Veronica throws open her apartment door, still dressed in her work outfit of a pressed black pantsuit. “Ugh, would you believe I only _just_ got home?”

Veronica sighs heavily as she unpins her pearl earrings and drops them in a bowl by the door, gesturing for Betty to follow her into the apartment. There seems to be something wearier around her shoulders than the usual post-work frustration, but Betty can’t get a good look at it, as she’s already crossing the room and reaching for the uncorked bottle of white wine on the dining table.

She pours Betty a light glass, and then takes a hearty sip of her own. “I am so ready to quit, B. Thank god I only have two more months.” Having spent the last two years listening to Veronica bemoan the life of an underling paralegal in a small town law firm, this is nothing Betty isn’t used to.

“I swear, I’m only one more night of overtime without pay from finding my inner _Carrie,”_ Veronica says dryly. She gives Betty a quick once over. “Cute outfit, by the way. _Just_ enough décolletage to make your mail-order love interest swoon.”

Betty smiles in relief, given she’d spent a solid hour throwing on every shirt she had before settling on the original choice: a cropped baby blue top with a wide scoop neck and a pair of high rise black jeans. She sips her wine and glances around; something seems different about the apartment. “Did you rearrange the furniture?”

Veronica takes another gulp of wine, glancing at Betty over the rim of her glass in the way that usually precursors a conversation about law school, Veronica’s upcoming move to Los Angeles, or her opinions on Betty living with her mother.

(Which she finds a little rich, considering Veronica’s own mother lives in the apartment upstairs.)

“I started selling some things,” Veronica admits hesitantly. “I figure if I get started now, I won’t be so overwhelmed come Judgment Day. Apparently, it also helps the realtor show people around and ‘envision this space as their own.’”

“Makes sense,” Betty says, trying to stamp out the queasy reminder that her best friend is moving nearly three thousand miles away.

Veronica sees right through it, as usual, and sighs as she leads them back into her bedroom. Betty plops down onto her canopy bed, as Veronica starts to sift through her closet absentmindedly. “Remind me again why you’re not coming with me?”

Betty rolls her eyes, because they’ve been down this road so many times she could map it from memory. “Because my family is here, and so is my business.”

“But your _best friend in the entire world_ is moving to LA,” Veronica replies, batting her eyelashes with mock innocence. “And sorry, do you mean the business you own half of and share with your mom and sister but do all of the work, or the one where you’re an unpaid nanny and live-in housekeeper?”

She appreciates the way Ronnie is always defensive on her behalf, but sometimes, it feels a bit too pointed. This is one of those moments, but at Betty’s look, Veronica just sends her a pouted bottom lip and puts down her wine glass. “Please come with me.”

“Okay, I’ll come with you,” Betty says, with obvious sarcasm.

Veronica claps her hands together. “Yay! Alright, I’m thinking Echo Park for neighborhoods? It’s small, but supposedly it’s an ideal blend of useless artisanal products and effective bohème. Deeply gentrified, of course, which is a consideration—”

“V, I was kidding. You know I’m not moving to LA,” Betty reminds her, for the umpteenth time.

She huffs. “I just don’t understand why not,” she snaps, and Betty once again gets the impression that Veronica’s mood is more tightly wound than usual. “Do you know why I’m going to the city of angels, Betty? I could’ve gone anywhere for law school. Stayed in state—god knows it would’ve been cheaper—or at least found a nice little city on the Eastern seaboard. But people have been going west in search of meaning for hundreds of years, B. Isn’t that something we’re all looking for?”

Betty opens her mouth, but Veronica sees the cornered look on her face and spares her the misery. Her expression softens. “I’m sorry. You know the last thing I want to do is project. But…sometimes I just wonder. And worry. You hate Riverdale.”

“I don’t hate Riverdale,” Betty insists, which is true. “I…am _sometimes_ frustrated by the way things turned out, but there a lot of people with a lot worse—”

“Yes, there are starving children all over the world, I know, I know,” Veronica interrupts. “Doesn’t mean your problems aren’t also valid, sweetie.”

“You know, I don’t see you having this lecture with Kevin, who is also staying in Riverdale,” Betty points out, but it’s a weak attempt, even for her.

“ _Kevin_ is an out gay man in a long term relationship who wants to be a _politician_ , Betty,” she explains, even though they both know the reason. “He _has_ to start on a local level, so his hometown is ideal. It’s tragic and ridiculously erroneous, but unfortunately where we’re still at in America 2017. And you and I both already knew that. So don’t even.”

Betty exhales, because Veronica has been broaching the topic of Betty moving with her a lot more often lately, in a way that she loves to play off as a joke, but tonight, something seems different. Betty has spent so much time convincing herself that she’ll manage without her best friend, that she’ll miss her so much but she’s happy for her—that she hasn’t stopped to think about how Ronnie will manage without _her_ best friend too.

It’s one thing for Betty to say goodbye to Veronica knowing she’s off in pursuit of her dreams, and it must be another for Veronica to do the same, all the while knowing how secretly trapped Betty feels.

They need to get ready to go soon, so there isn’t much time for Betty to ruminate on this, but she knows it’s a thought that’ll keep her up over the course of the week.

“Is this why you asked me here today?” Betty asks softly, tucking her hair behind ears. (She’d decided to wear it down again today, having liked the reaction it got before.) She cracks a smile. “Another attempt at practicing your lawyer voice?” 

Something moves across Veronica’s face, as if she might be about to say something. Instead, she quickly turns back to face her closet.

“Psh. As if I haven’t been arguing my way into everything my whole life. No,  _obviously_ I asked you here for fashion advice.” She twists back, holding a lacy black dress up against herself and giving it a little swish. “What do you think? Too much?”

“For the bowling alley? _Yes_ ,” Betty says emphatically. Veronica waves a dismissive hand and returns to her wardrobe; after a little bit of debate, they both agree on a mid-length polka dot skirt and a silky black tank top, to be worn tucked in.

Veronica appears pleased, but as she settles in front of her vanity and starts her make up, Betty catches a glimpse of Veronica’s reflection. There’s a spot of something waning, and it passes quickly, but not before Betty sees a thought moving faraway in her mind.

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She and Veronica walk into the bowling alley arm-in-arm, but separate as they near their dates, who are waiting just beyond the entrance and outside the parallel arcade. Archie is saying something, one hand moving animatedly, but Jughead doesn’t seem to be paying attention. He bounces on his feet and stares at the ceiling in the way Betty has noticed usually does when he’s distracted by his thoughts.

Veronica passes Betty a sly look, because clearly she sees it too, and then strides forward, wiggling her fingers at the two of them. “Hello, boys,” she calls, with a voice like wind chimes. She and Archie greet each other with a comfortable kiss, while Betty slows her steps a few feet before reaching Jughead.

“Hi,” she says quietly. He gives her a long once over and her whole body warms under his gaze.

“Hey. You look really pretty, Betty,” he says, scratching his neck.

She looks down at her outfit, pleased that she’d trusted her instincts rather than allow Veronica to play Barbie; there had been a brief, last-minute struggle for control in which Veronica had tried to push her into a skirt that had been inappropriately short for an activity like bowling. But if this is the reaction a plain pair of high-waisted skinny jeans gets, Betty wonders how the skirt would’ve gone over.

“Oh. Thanks,” she breathes.

She gets a good look at him, and realizes he too looks a bit dressier than normal. Still clearly, purely _Jughead_ , but smoothed around the edges; he’s wearing his typical outfit of black jeans and drooping suspenders, but rather than his usual aged t-shirt and enclave of plaid, he’s donned a dark navy button up of a fine caliber, open over a black undershirt.

And, she notices: again, no beanie.

He looks _good_.

“Nice shirt,” she adds, reaching forward and straightening his collar. His Adam’s apple bobs, tracing the movement.

She means it as a compliment, but he appears suddenly self-conscious. “Well, I need to do laundry, so it was either the ancient _System of a Down_ t-shirt I accidentally brought or the one I got for my sister’s graduation. I know it’s kind of dressy for just bowling, but…not that this is _just_ bowling—”

“Juggie.” His mouth promptly clamps shut and she smiles up at him. “I meant it _looks_ nice.”

Betty glances around and realizes they’re alone. Veronica and Archie have slipped away, and she spots them across the alley, clearly giving them their space. She breathes a sigh of relief; Veronica had promised not to tease her about this double date, but Betty honestly hadn’t believed her until now.

She loves her best friend dearly, but Veronica can be so insufferable when she’s proven right and Betty would never have been able to have a good time if she was spending the whole evening fielding off smug smirks.

Now that it’s just her and Jughead, it seems like—well, just the two of them, joking under the hood of his truck or bantering over eggs. The simplest act of just being around him; this is the part that has always felt easy.

And yet, somewhere between waking up knowing it was because he was no longer holding her and the tense conversation about things very explicitly unsaid, something has definitely changed. What it is, Betty doesn’t know, but it hangs between them; headier, hushed, and curling slowly like a tendril of smoke against the light.

A shift that makes the world feel just slightly tilted beneath her feet, drawing her closer towards him as if gravity itself commands it.

With a start, Betty realizes her fingers have slid down slightly, moving from his collar to his chest.

It feels thrillingly new; beyond the spare pull on his arm or the bit of snuggling on the couch last night—which had honestly been a daze of post-panic haziness, so she’s not even sure it totally counts—she hasn’t experimented with any kind of physical closeness with him until now.

Normally, she’d have already been finding excuses to lay her hand on his shoulder, or sneak in little touches, but up until this afternoon, she’d been so confused by what he wanted. Jughead seems like a guy who deeply values personal space until he's comfortable, so she hadn’t wanted to overstep or make him feel awkward.

But she knows it’s mutual now. He called this a _date._ So she presses her fingers gently against the fabric of his shirt and gladly plays with fire.

“Hi,” she says again.

“Hi,” he returns, his voice very low. His eyes rake across her face; it’s an expression she’s only seen him wear from afar, furiously typing away in the back of a booth at Pop’s, like he’s concentrating on some kind of thematic riddle.

“We probably shouldn’t keep them waiting,” Betty says, but she hasn’t moved.

Jughead scoffs, and the moment seems to fizzle out, like a sparking rope of dynamite that never quite reaches its point. “Look, I just spent the last hour listening to the saga of Archie’s battle for creative integrity over a _talking duck commercial,_ so he can fucking stand to wait a bit.”

“Quote the quack, ‘Nevermore,’” Betty giggles.

Jughead laughs outright. “Yikes, Cooper. Should I make a joke about why a duck is like a writing desk?”

“Edgar Allen oh-no,” she says, and Jughead sighs with aplomb.

“Jesus, that’s terrible, Betts. Terrible. This joke is over, I’m calling it,” he says. “Poor Poe. He’s probably rolling in his grave as we speak.”

“Pretty sure he was waiting his whole life to sulk from beyond the grave, so I think it’s fine.”

His lips are pursed against a grin. His eyes sweep over her once more, and at this angle, Betty is sure he’s got a decent view of her cleavage. “Did I mention you look really nice?”

“It’s just jeans and a top,” she says, reluctantly dropping her hand from his chest because she can’t stand here forever, half-groping him with what she’s sure is an absurdly dopey expression.

Jughead snorts playfully. “I’ll be happy to prove you wrong on that. In iambic pentameter, if you want. Or, do you like haikus?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Betty sighs, but feeling ridiculously pleased. She loops her hands around his arm and tugs him towards Archie and Veronica. “Come on, Shakespeare.”

Upon the reunion, the four of them settle into the line for bowling shoes and lane assignments. Archie and Veronica are so deeply wrapped around one another that Betty feels nervous with just her elbow crooked around Jughead’s arm in comparison, so she drops it. She misses the warmth right away and instantly regrets it.

Veronica appraises Jughead with a nod. “Lovely shirt, by the way,” she says approvingly. “Nice to see you _can_ clean up a bit.”

“Want me to take off my glasses so you can realize I’ve been beautiful all along?” Jughead drawls acerbically, which Betty expects is just because he knows a compliment on his wardrobe is a big deal coming from Veronica and it clearly embarrasses him.

“But you don’t wear glasses,” Archie says, his brow wrinkling with confusion. Jughead huffs, half exasperated and half amused.

“I gotta be honest,” Betty says, lacing her fingers behind her back as Jughead glances back her way. “I was almost expecting you to wear a tuxedo t-shirt.”

“No, this is good,” Jughead says, without missing a beat. He waves a hand between them. “Let’s just get what you really think of me out on the open early on.”

“Dude, you definitely owned one of those in middle school,” Archie says, tucking Veronica under his arms and resting his chin on the top of her head. He grins goofily at them.

“Whatever, shut up,” Jughead replies, so quickly that it veers on defensive. “I can’t be held accountable for my adolescent bullshit. Anyway, I have it on good authority that you still own a keyboard tie.”

“Uh, _yeah_ , because those are funny,” Archie replies, like this is obvious.

“Oh my god, Archiekins,” Veronica says, twisting to look up at Archie. She looks so personally offended that Betty almost laughs out loud. “I’m so going to pretend I didn’t just hear that.”

In response, Archie just nuzzles against her neck until her expression turns soft again, leaving Jughead and Betty to exchange unimpressed looks.

It’s finally their turn in line, and everyone gives out their shoe sizes to the teenager behind the counter. As he runs off to collect their bowling shoes, Archie leans up against the counter and surveys Jughead with an expression of pure impishness.

“Too bad we’re not in Boston,” he says. “Because Jughead owns about four pairs of shoes—and one of those pairs happen to be bowling shoes.”

Betty looks up at Jughead with surprise. “You own your own bowling shoes?”

Jughead shrugs indifferently, his hands in his pockets. “What? They were on sale.”

“I just didn’t peg you for such a diehard,” Betty says, failing miserably at hiding a smile.

“Are you kidding?” Jughead says, raising his eyebrows. “It covers all my bases. It’s 90% sitting down, every bowling alley in America sells hot dogs and nachos, and…it’s a game of patience. Balance. Momentum. A certain je ne sais quoi,” he says, pinching his finger and thumb together and speaking in a terrible French accent that Betty _knows_ Veronica would like to correct. “And again, a strong case to be made for the nachos.”

Honestly, when he explains it like that, bowling does seem like arguably the most Jughead-approved activity in the book. The conversation turns to the costs, which Archie and Jughead offer to split, but Betty tries to insert her own credit card, while Veronica admits she has no qualms about being treated to a free evening when she's about to go off to an expensive law school. Jughead rolls his eyes good-naturedly and doesn’t seem to mind Betty’s attempts to help pay, but Archie insists it’s the least they can do after all she’s doing for the truck, so eventually she withdraws her bid.

Meanwhile, the pimply teenager returns from the back and presents them with their shoes and available bowling lane. Immediately, Veronica has procured a moist towelette from her purse and is already wiping down her pair. She uses it to pick them up and carries the shoes in front of her at arm’s length, her lip curled into something very sour.

Jughead watches the whole exchange with interest. “Veronica doesn’t like germs,” Betty supplies in a half-whisper, leaning in against Jughead. He bumps her shoulder playfully and glances up at Veronica with amusement.

“Please. Find me a sane human being who does,” Veronica says over her shoulder. “Honestly, I still can’t believe I agreed to go _bowling_ , of all things. Curiously, what’s the process on reporting identity theft?”

“C’mon. You said yes because you like me, babe,” Archie smirks, his arm dangling around her as they head towards their lane.

 _Babe,_ Jughead mouths at Betty, his eyes widening mischievously. She tries not to snigger.

When they all sit down, Veronica’s eyes are elsewhere beyond the alley, and it’s not until they’ve all changed into their rented shoes that she finally seems to snap back into the moment. Betty files away the moment for later, as it’s the same the faraway look she’d noticed back at Veronica’s apartment.

And it’s one thing for her best friend of over a decade to zone out when it’s just them, but it’s very unlike Ronnie to not be socially present among others.

“So,” Betty says, once they’ve set up their lane computer with their initials and game order. She sinks into the seat next to Jughead and puts her hands on her knees. “Should we do teams, maybe? Girls vs. boys?”

“Oh, honey, I would never do that to you,” Veronica replies, with a commiserating sort of look. She holds up both hands, her glossy nails gleaming at Betty. “This is a seventy-five dollar manicure. I’m strictly bowling granny-style tonight. No, let’s stick with our dates. I have no problem leaving Archiekins to his own devices, but I couldn’t do that to my best girl.”

“Aw man,” Archie whines, as if he can’t help it. Veronica swivels towards him with a look that screams _you did not just,_ so he very hastily adds, “Jughead’s just really good. I wanted him on my team.”

Jughead stretches his arms across his chest in a show of mock machismo. He grunts a little dramatically and glances over at Betty. “I mean, yeah. I don’t wanna brag, but…I’m gonna wipe the floor with all of you.”

Betty raises an eyebrow and shifts in her seat, crossing her legs so that she faces him. “Really, now?”

His arm slips around the back of her seat as he too twists towards her. “Oh, yeah,” he says, his voice dropping almost conspiratorially. “Hold onto your hat, Cooper.”

“I’ll put it with your missing beanie.” She means it jokingly, but the mood instantly shifts. Frowning, Jughead’s fingers dart up to his hair, as if about to tug on the hat that isn’t there.

“Yeah. I’m trying something out,” Jughead mumbles, dropping his hands back into his lap.

“What’s that?”

“Adulthood, I think,” he sighs, briefly glancing off at nothing. “Jury’s still out.”

Betty pauses, wondering what he means. But if nothing, she’s noticed the way the hat skirts around a sensitive subject, and seems to be some sort of long-held security blanket, so she suspects it has at least something to do with that.

“I like you with the hat,” she says gently. “But I also like you without it.”

His head is bowed slightly, but his eyes flick up. Clouds move across his face and Betty can’t begin to interpret the shape of them.

“So, Betty’s up first,” Archie says, with an air of impatience. Betty realizes that she and Jughead have been leaning in towards one another and having a very private conversation. She knows it’s a bit rude for a double date, but it’s a hard balance to strike for what is also her and Jughead’s very first.

The affection and comfort between Archie and Veronica only serves as stark reminder that Betty is on borrowed time with Jughead; she feels sorely behind schedule on where she’d like to be, so she consciously decides she wants to enjoy this.

(And she can’t help it if every time he looks at her, she feels like she’s about to jump out of her skin.)

She wants to know what her hands would feel like moving across the planes of his chest. Wants to brush the pad of her thumb against his bottom lip and memorize each freckle on his jaw.

It’s that thought, however, that forces Betty to accept that she must distract herself, lest she actually jump him thirty minutes into their first date.

She stands and selects a predictably pink bowling ball. Finding her pose, she swings her arm back, and lets the ball roll. It tumbles along the lane and takes down a comfortable number of pins. She manages to get all but two on her second try, and when she turns around, Jughead is grinning at her.

“Not too shabby,” he says, as she returns to her spot next to him.

Archie is next, and he does better than Betty, ending up with a spare. He throws Jughead a competitive sort of leer while Veronica very begrudgingly rises for her turn. As promised, she hugs the ball against her chest and simply lets it drop onto the smooth lane with a loud _bang_. It moves agonizingly slowly, but in the end somehow earns a perfect split.

When Jughead gets up, he takes his sweet time. He selects a green ball, puts it back, tries again with a black one, then a blue one, his fingers running deliberately over the surfaces all the while. This process goes on to the point where Archie calls out, _“Dude, we don’t have all year, just bowl already,”_ and Jughead finally finds his mark.

He lines up against the lane, brings the ball up to his nose and then swings it back, dropping into a lunge as he sends it barreling down. It’s a perfect strike.

Betty and Veronica clap as he turns back around, but he just waves them off. “No paparazzi, please,” he mutters, dropping down next to Betty. He flashes her a wide, toothy grin that straddles the line of cocky, which is all the ammunition she needs for her imagination to start up again. Or, at least, that’s as PG-13 as she’ll allow herself to admit now that she’s noticed there’s a family of four bowling in the lane next to them.

This is getting ridiculous.

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The game continues in a similar succession, and true to his promise, Jughead easily earns the highest score. Archie snags second place, while Betty and Veronica vacillate between third and fourth. Veronica’s technique of more or less dropping the ball onto the lane and walking away tends to either work radically well or not at all, so in the end, Betty manages a narrow defeat.

The decide they should try a second game (read: Archie demands a rematch), but Jughead insists he won’t play until he’s refueled, so he and Archie head off to the fast food grill in the back of the alley in search of greasy salvation.

Once they’re out of earshot, Betty scoots over to Veronica’s side of the chairs, excited to analyze how she think their date is going. But Veronica is staring off into space again, her chin propped up on the back of her hand, and doesn’t seem to realize Betty is even there until she says her name.

“Sorry B, did you say something?” She asks, blinking slowly as if to clear her thoughts.

“Okay, what’s up with you?” Betty demands, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve been acting weird all night.”

Veronica appears mildly shocked to have been called out—but to her credit, doesn’t deny it, which is probably what Betty would’ve done. She sighs and folds her hands carefully in her lap. “Do you think things are moving too quickly between me and Archie?”

It’s the last thing Betty expected her to say, so she’s briefly stunned silent. She nibbles her lips over the words, but decides Ronnie will want the truth. “Well, you know this is kind of what you do, right? You always throw yourself so fully into whatever you’re doing, right away. But I don’t know, V. Only you can answer that. Why do you ask?”

“I think you might’ve been right,” Veronica says in a half-whisper. Her eyes are lingering on a young couple giggling a few lanes down. “About why you were hesitant about Jughead. I’m starting to wonder if dating two highwaymen was a bad idea.”

Feeling like the air has left her lungs and alone with the thought _you’re telling me this now?,_ Betty stares at Veronica, completely at a loss for words. Realizing the implications of what she’s said, Veronica turns to face her.

“I’m sorry, I don’t say it to scare you. You know I like Jughead, and I can tell he’s, like, Baroque-levels of romantic over you. But…honestly, Betty, I’m a little freaked out by how fast things are moving. We’re just spending _so_ much time together. I see him on my lunch breaks, and then we’re together _every single night,”_ she admits, worrying a red lip delicately between her teeth.

A pause sits like a body between them.

“Well, what would you tell me, if I was in your place?” Betty asks. This is the advice she always falls back on when she doesn’t know what else to say, but it doesn’t really apply here, since Betty _is_ more or less also in Veronica’s place.

Veronica’s laugh is tinkling and sad as she uses the tip of her finger to stave off a tear. “To throw yourself into sex, probably,” she says around a scoff. She meets Betty’s eyes and sighs again. “I just… I thought that we were just having fun.”

“Are you not anymore?” Betty asks softly. She wonders if she’d read the wrong energy between Archie and Veronica; if she’d somehow mistook affection for a compensation for discomfort.

“We are, we are,” Veronica insists. Her eyes fall out of focus again as she fingers a gold chain around her neck. “But I just haven’t felt this way since Cheryl.”

Betty’s eyebrows shoot up; this is something that Veronica would never say lightly. She was with Cheryl for over three years. They talked about things like _marriage_ and all other things that serious relationships get into. “How—”

“It’s not the _same_ feeling, obviously,” Veronica interrupts, almost defensively. “They’re so different. The _situation_ is so different. Cheryl and I had years and years of mounting tension before we ever did anything about it. Archie…it feels like I know him so well already. But really, hair color is the only thing they have in common.”

That and an obvious streak of competitiveness, but it won’t do any good to bring that up, so Betty just waits for Veronica to continue.

“With Cheryl…I loved her so much—and I always will, of course—but she drove me so crazy. She projected all of her insecurities onto me, she was so manic-depressive half the time, and refused to get help while we were together,” Veronica sighs, sniffing loudly. “Not that I didn’t play my part in that too—I got to the point where I’d just pick fights with her rather than ever try to talk about our issues. In the end, I was so exhausted. We were two immiscible liquids.”

She meets Betty’s eye as she dabs at her own, almost desperately trying to preserve her perfect black cat-eye makeup. “Archie is nothing like that. What you see is what you get; there’s no double meaning, no passive-aggressive repartee. It’s so relaxing, and so easy to be around him.”

Betty wants to say that Veronica can’t know that, can’t know him well enough to be so sure, but then she thinks of Jughead. Has she not already privately compared his strengths against Trev, locked away in the pink bedroom with the old thoughts? Has she, even just tonight, not thought about how it easy most things feel between them?

“And the _sex_ , oh my god,” Veronica groans, pressing on her temples and pulling Betty back into the moment. “With Archie, it really feels like it could’ve been the start of something. And _that,_ B _, that_ is the crux of my crisis. I knew when and why Cheryl and I had run our course. But Archie and I are just getting started, and we’ll never know what we could’ve been.”

Betty understands all too well what Veronica means.

“This is all so uncharacteristically depressing of me, Betty,” she looks over at her with watery eyes, “but how much longer until the truck is finished?”

Betty exhales shakily. “Not much,” she admits warily. Like Veronica, things are moving faster than she anticipated, especially once she got the compressor ahead of schedule.

Veronica reaches over and grasps Betty’s hands. “Slow it down?” She asks, half a demand and half a plea. “I need more time to feel like this romantic tragedy isn’t being puppeteered by the Bard himself.”

She almost considers it. Almost allows the thought in, entertaining visions of more time, longer days, less anxiety, less impatience—but he has been very adamant from the get go that he has to be in Chicago at the end of the month, and she can’t betray him like that.

“I couldn’t do that to Jughead, V,” Betty says softly. “He’s going to his sister’s gradation, and I could never take that from him. And you know you couldn’t do that to Archie, either. Forcing someone to stay will only make them resent you.”

Veronica nods, like she expected this, but something exasperated swims in her eyes. “Are we still talking about the boys, or about you?”

 _Point taken,_ Betty thinks.

“Do you regret it?” She asks, after a long moment. She hooks her arm around Veronica and draws her against her shoulder, in the way they always do for one another when one of them is upset. “Starting things up with Archie?”

“No,” Veronica sighs. “But yes, in the more imminent sense.”

With a loud inhale, she sits up and attempts to settle into her usual perfect posture. “Sweetie, if you’re asking me if I think you shouldn’t pursue things with Jughead any further, unfortunately, my answer is still the same. I’m deep in the throws of ambiguity right now, but I still maintain that life is better lived as an Elizabeth Taylor than a Judith Campbell.”

Betty doesn’t get much of a moment to consider this, as Veronica quickly murmurs, “Oh, here they come,” and becomes an utter visage of composure. Jughead and Archie return with trays of drinks and piles of food, including a hefty pile of nachos that Jughead announces he intends to put away by himself.

He presents Betty with her requested order of curly fries, and the rest of the evening is spent eating and bowling. After the second game, Veronica opts out entirely and busies herself with online window shopping, and by the end of the night, Betty has definitely gotten a few helpful pointers from Jughead.

“Pretty soon you’ll be giving me a run for my money,” he says, after she uses his technique to win a strike.

“Yeah, sure. I bet you use these moves on all the girls,” she teases. “What is this, a sports movie?”

Jughead scoffs. “What girls? Betty, you’re the first person I’ve asked out in years. Actually—” He pauses, clearly thinking. “Wait, nope, Ethel asked me out. Unless you count the time I asked Ginger Lopez to dance because I lost a bet to Archie, you’re the first official one.”

Her eyes widen with this information, because she thinks Jughead is way too good-looking for this to be true. But not every attractive person spends their entire life fielding off romance like Veronica or Cheryl, so maybe she shouldn’t assume. Some of this must show on her face, however, because a flush quickly appears at the tips of his ears.

“Not that—I mean, I’ve _had—_ shit,” he mutters, scrunching up his face. She doesn’t understand what he’s stammering around at first, but then she realizes he’s talking about sex. “I’m just not much of a relationship guy, I mean.”

This sends a stone straight to the bottom of her stomach, even though, in reality, it should make her feel relieved. If he isn’t looking for a relationship, she’s really got nothing to be worried about, right? It’s better that he’s upfront with her about it, so they can mess around a little without any strings or expectations on Betty’s end.

 _This is good,_ she tells herself, even as it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

.

.

.

Later, when they’re finally bowled out, there’s a half-hearted attempt to muster enthusiasm for drinks, but Veronica and Archie exchange completely obvious eyes of yearning and announce they’re feeling too “tired.”

Betty and Jughead watch the other two practically race each other to Veronica’s car, and once the vintage Mercedes is out of sight, Betty turns to him. “Want a ride?”

Jughead licks his lips. “Oh, sure. I was just gonna call a Lyft, but…always looking a way to pinch a penny.”

The whole ride back to his motel, something like anticipation creeps very slowly up her neck. It’s unnervingly satisfying in a way that is absolutely torturous, and given the way Jughead’s knee is aggressively bouncing up and down, she thinks he feels it too.

When they pull into the parking lot, it’s completely empty. A neon blue road sign overhead begs for vacancy, there’s not a soul in sight, the wind rustles a lone tree, and it feels like they’re the only people left in town.

She cuts the engine and glances over. “I had a really fun time tonight, Juggie,” she says as she twists towards him, unprepared for the distracted, darkened look in his eye. He fidgets with a thought, and then he moves.

His hands cup her face in order to present her with just the tiniest amount of warning before he’s kissing her.

He pulls back quickly, just enough to say something. His eyes dance rapidly across her face. “I—” He starts, but it’s promptly muffled by Betty chasing after his lips, desperate for an excuse to exorcise the tension between them. With the gearshift on the wheel, the front seat is nothing but a continuous cushion that they can stretch out along, so she crawls back against him until he’s pressed into the passenger door.

She’s not sure what exactly she’d been expecting, but whatever it was, she would’ve been wrong.

Their mouths move open against each other with an almost frenzied type of haste, as everything that’s sat slowly boiling between them finally begins to whistle its warning. Every touch lights her on fire; even with the simplest way where he presses his thumbs into the dimples where her back dips lowest, Betty’s whole body finds a new way to warm.

Maybe it’s the fearful, watery confession from Veronica still haunting her thoughts, but Betty is suddenly overcome by a wanton impatience. She wants him, and she wants him _now_. Jughead’s hands move to her arms, and seem to be trying to slow her down, but she ignores it. Doesn’t he realize how much time they’ve already wasted?

In the back of her mind, she knows this might be too much, too fast, but her skin is flushed with gooseflesh and all she cares about is chasing the burn between her legs. So Betty wraps her arms around his neck, smothers the thought, and sings a silent hymn for the life of vintage cars.

She kisses him in the type of car made for a midnight rendezvous and love in the time of moonlight; she kisses him like the whisper of a willow tree rippling along the water, in the secluded kind of hideaway known only by lovers.

She kisses him with a ticking clock, like the very one that still sits on the dashboard of her car. The second hand has been clicking in place for over fifty years, and won’t stop now.

Time and momentum are funny things, she realizes dimly. If momentum is the mark left behind as proof of time, but time is just a human perception, what is truth, as that clock quietly ticks along? Is it counting down to something, or forever going in circles?

All she knows is the two must work in tandem, ever passing one another and never quite meeting, and both seem to be a measure of something that both poetry and science have been trying to put to pen for centuries.

Betty has wanted more time before.

She’s felt the imminence of change, from childhood into adulthood and from having a life into just living. She’s said goodbye to the job she loved and the new city that held nothing but possibilities. She’s held her dying father’s hand and sobbed into his hospital bed and learned far too much about appreciating what you have, when you have it.

Like the bowling ball curving down the lane with intentions to strike, momentum swings into collision between them, and she’s never wanted more time than what she has with Jughead.

She fists a hand into his hair as he sits up slightly against the car door in order to drop kisses onto her neck, shoulder, and anywhere in reach that isn’t her mouth. She throws her head back to give him better access, and enthusiastically murmurs, _“I want you,”_ into the air.

“Betts,” he attempts to mumble against her skin, but she’s afraid to hear it, so she shifts forward and drags her teeth against his bottom lip.

 _“Betty,”_ he tries again, more urgently, when she finally breaks for air. But she’s not known for much more than apple pie, fixing cars, and an acute case of tunnel vision, so she carries straight on.

“Do you want me to come up?” She whispers, sliding her palm down his stomach as she peppers his jaw with kisses. He’s straining beneath her and she has only one thought: _I can help with that_ —but, to her surprise, he catches her hand just before it can reach the edge of his pants.

She blinks up at him, sure she’s about to see rejection in his face. Instead, his eyes are practically black with want, but his expression is nothing short of tortured. “I don’t… _have_ anything,” he says, with meaning. “I wasn’t expecting—I didn’t want to assume—”

She squints at him, and then understands. He doesn’t have condoms.

“I’m not on the pill,” she tries to say, but she’s breathing so heavily that it takes a moment. She hasn’t been on birth control since breaking up with Trev, for no real reason except what was probably some kind of unconscious defense mechanism against moments exactly like this one.

Their shoulders rise and fall with a long breath as they catch the disappointment in each other’s eye.

It gives her a moment to finally gets a good look at what she’s done to him; his neck has all the makings of a warzone, his once pristine, crisp shirt is shoved forcefully half off and the black tank top underneath has been pushed up, exposing the defined expanse of skin she’s only seen once before and thought much of since.

She can’t see herself, but assumes she looks about the same kind of ruined. Her hair feels tangled and wild down her back, and she at least knows her own shirt is ridden up to her ribs.

His head falls back against the fogged window with a palpable _thump_.

With a start, Betty remembers where they are, and immediately blushes madly—not that it’s anything redder than the flush she already had. _Betty Cooper, as you live and breathe._ She can’t believe she nearly tried to give him a _handjob_ in the parking lot of a motel.

An _empty_ parking lot, save for themselves, but there’s no way to know someone hadn’t walked by and seen them aggressively making out in a car like horny teenagers. Betty groans with embarrassment and hides her head in the crook of his shoulder; he’s still hard beneath her, but he chuckles anyway.

He curls a lock of her hair around his finger as she shifts against him, and tucks herself into a position that is decidedly less compromising. Still spread out along the length of the car, he welcomes her new spot against him, as one leg dangles off the driver’s seat and the other is propped up around her. They’re still breathing heavily.

“This is probably for the best,” Jughead says after a long moment, which makes Betty still. He notices, and rushes to add, “I just mean…we should take things a little slower, right?”

She can feel him looking at her and so she resolutely keeps her head down. She picks at a loose thread on her jeans. “Why?”

“Why?” Jughead repeats, confused.

Betty still can’t make herself look at him. “Do you not want me?”

“I think you can still feel the evidence to the contrary,” Jughead mutters, his hand on her knee. “There’s nothing not to want.” Something in his tone is asking her to look at him, but she won’t be able to get through this if she does.

“Okay, then. Well, we don’t have a lot of time together,” she says slowly. She thinks of Veronica and her advice; bravely going after what she wants, even in the face of doom. She thinks of all the forgotten promises she swore to herself, fresh off her father's death, that she would enjoy the people in her life for whatever little time she had them. She thinks of the ill-fated lovers on the pages of Jughead’s mind, and the fact that he _isn’t a relationship guy._

“We’re just getting this out of our systems, right? Just sex? So we don’t wonder ‘what if’ down the line? So why take it slow?”

Finally, she glances up, but has no idea what to make of his expression. It’s guarded and thoughtful and mutable all at once and reveals absolutely nothing. “Yeah,” he says at last. “We’ll keep it just physical.”

It’s what she asked for, what she’s decided as the safest inevitable route to hell, but it still digs like a knife to the gut. “Yep. We’re adults. Our eyes are open,” she says, in a strange voice she doesn’t recognize as her own.

She wants to ask— _what would you say if things were different? What would you want from me?_

If they’d met in a circumstance less looming, if they’d known each other longer, had more time together—would he still have so casually mentioned he’s not interested in relationships? Would she have changed that in him?

 _Probably not,_ she thinks. She’s never been enough to will fate into her bidding before, so it’s unlikely this would’ve been any different.

Jughead’s mouth opens and closes, as if he can’t wrap around what he’d like to say.

A moment earlier, and she might’ve pointed out that there’s still plenty they can do without the need for condoms, but she now recognizes her impatience as overcompensation for fear of losing him. The resulting embarrassment is all she needs to kill the mood.

“Do you still—” He starts, but Betty slides away, back towards the driver’s seat.

“I should get home,” she says, facing the wheel and pushing her hair back from her face.

Jughead doesn’t move, still strewn out; his foot jiggles nervously against her thigh. “Are we—”

“We’re good,” Betty says firmly, forcing herself to look at him. The makings of tears start to sting warningly at her eyes, so she blinks quickly in order to keep them at bay. She stretches forward and squeezes his hand. “We can go out tomorrow night, and…try this all again?”

His eyes sweep over her face, and then he relaxes, slumping against the door. “Okay,” he says, somewhat tentatively but smiling all the same. “And I’ll, uh, be more _prepared_ next time.”

Right.

Even so, Betty thinks she won’t be.

.

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.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i've never written smut before!
> 
> also me: so let's start with the angstiest metaphysical bullshit i can possibly scrape together!
> 
> or—whoops, this story honestly began with the intention of being a somewhat short attempt at writing something cute, but i'm starting to realize that i'm a lot moodier than i thought. i also don't know why i keep using things like corn and bowling as my thematic structure but i guess i'm really gunning for americana here. 
> 
> listening playlist: _oogum boogum_ by brenton wood for the bowling alley scenes, _but not for me_ by the flamingos for betty's hot take angst, plus a little bit of _nick of time_ by bonnie raitt lbr
> 
> i'm also shaking things up a bit with the lyrics at the start of chapters, which will now be a different song each time since i ran out of landslide after i wildly miscalculated how long this fic was gonna fuckin be
> 
> today's lyrics are from: _i wonder_ by rodriguez. 
> 
> anyway i feel like all you guys are gonna do is scream at me in the comments but there was a lot of ground covered (longest chapter yet at over 7k!) before we got to my trash thoughts on love and life and sex, so please let me know what you thought of the chapter! your comments mean SO MUCH to me, especially when i broach new avenues (like smut) so i'd really appreciate a little feedback if you can!
> 
> once again, a big thanks to my beta, saralisa, or SRLoftis! thanks for putting up with me! and this week has been nuts, and i haven't had a chance to get to the comment replies, so they'll be coming belatedly, hopefully soon!


	11. Chapter 11

_I've looked at love from both sides now_  
_From give and take and still somehow  
__It's love's illusions I recall_

 __ _I really don't know love at all_  

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.

. 

He honestly thought he’d known insomnia well. 

Sleep has always been the girl he loved from afar; pining, out of reach, that sort of sluggish mooning through the day that leads to a long night of stretching his fingers across his pillows to catch something that isn’t there. 

Usually, he manages to win over couple of solid hours, or at least enough energy to get him from one cup of coffee to the next. 

But that, apparently, was until he met Betty, because he’s pretty sure he’s never going to sleep again.

After he climbs out of her car—which he’ll never be able to look at in the same way—and leans back through her driver’s window to kiss her goodnight, something so chaste and gentle that it’s almost laughable given what had just conspired between them, he climbs the stairs to his room, shoves open the door, and flops onto the bed on his stomach. 

He lies there, facedown onto his pillow, for he has no idea how long, and completely unsure what he’s feeling, physically or otherwise. He’s still half-hard with the memory of her, but he doesn’t quite have the will to get up and take care of it because he’s too busy overanalyzing the massive downhill slope of the end of their date—so instead, he hits his head into the pillow a few times and mutters, _“stupid, stupid, stupid,”_ to himself.

What had he been expecting? That they’d make out for all of eternity and never have to talk about emotions or feelings or all the thousand ways this was a slow motion car crash? He should’ve seen a _talk_ coming a mile away, and definitely shouldn’t have been so utterly unprepared to hear the phrase “get it out of our systems” come out of her mouth, since she’d _said_ the damn thing already, when editing his book.

_“They have to act, even if they think it’s just something to get out of their systems. Let them enjoy what time they will have.”_

They’d been using characters as shields, but she’d said that. Put it right out there. Warned him, way ahead of time. And somehow, he was still not ready to hear it without pretense. 

But he’s not surprised. Frankly, if anything, he’s surprised that he’s _not_ at all surprised. Because of _course_ what was definitely a greatest-hits-moment was also going to be his one-hit-wonder. Because he always expected this would make him miserable in the end. 

He kissed her because he hadn’t been able to think of much else all night. Or all day, really. Ever since waking early in the morning with a false memory of her on his lips, it’s been looming in the back of his thoughts, driving him up a wall and distracting him from an attempt at anything else. So he had to do it. Had to see how fantasy compared to reality. 

The answer was obvious: if dream-Betty had merely kicked down his door, real-Betty burned his whole fucking house down. There was no comparison, really, now that he knows what she feels like under his hands and his mouth and has begun mapping the stars of her. 

It terrifies him how satisfying it was, and yet completely, irrevocably—not enough.

.

.

.

Night rolls into dawn before he knows it, so he finds himself doing laundry in the flickering florescence of an eerily empty motel at five in the morning. That kills only about an hour, and he tries desperately to find a bit of sleep after. It humors him for a little while, and when he wakes, feeling groggy but frustratingly awake at the same time, he doesn’t fight it. 

Instead, he goes off in search of deliverance. 

It takes the form of a greasy diner breakfast.

“I thought I might find you here,” a melodic voice says over his shoulder an hour later, and before he can recognize that it does _not_ belong to Betty and stamp out the hopeful crease in his heart, Veronica Lodge is sinking into the seat across from him.

“Okay, I gotta ask. Do you work here, or not?” He asks, squinting at her. “I still can’t figure that one out.”

“Not,” Veronica sighs. “Put in a few summers during my under-grad years, but it’s my mother with the steady employment here. I occasionally cover half a shift for her, as I was the night you two black hats rode into town.” 

Jughead realizes this is why the one older waitress at Pop’s looks so familiar to him, and nods, absorbing this. But Veronica must mistake this for something else, because her expression knots. “I know I may not seem the small-town-waitress Kerouac would wax for, but Pop Tate has been good to my family when not many people were. I am more than happy to help out when I can.” 

“I didn’t say any of that,” Jughead says slowly, wrinkling his brow. “I was just thinking about the poundage in pancakes I’ve made your mom carry and hoping that doesn’t come back to haunt me.” 

“Oh.” Veronica looks confused for a moment, and then shuffles in her seat, raising her neck as if to look at him better. 

There’s a long pause, and Jughead wonders what should happen next. He’s still working through why Veronica is at his table, early on a Saturday, when he’s pretty sure she and Archie have plans. “So...” he drawls, for lack of anything else. 

“Right,” she says quickly, like she’s been pulled out of her thoughts. She crosses her legs and sits up straighter. 

“So, I’ve observed something in you, Jughead Jones. That’s to say, a sharp wit mixing with a very blunt tact,” she says appraisingly, arching an already curved eyebrow. “An otherwise potentially fatal combination, but as fate would have it, just the kind I’m in the market for.”

“And I’ve been told _I’m_ pithy,” Jughead mutters under his breath, but clearly not low enough for it to go unheard by her. The other eyebrow joins its mate. “How can I help you, Veronica?” 

“It depends.” Veronica re-crosses her legs and tilts one shoulder towards him. “You see, I’ve been percolating on whether you might be more loyal than you are honest.”

Now it’s Jughead’s turn to raise his eyebrows, wondering how anyone gets this far through life being so cryptic. “Uh, I’d classify myself as the conscientious objector, if anything. But that would require context, of which you’ve provided none, so I can’t really answer that. But I _can_ keep a secret, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s not, so let me be more direct.” Veronica sighs, like she can’t decide if she is bored by this conversation or terrified of it. “I want to know Archie’s _modus operandi_ when it comes to his relationships.”

“That _is_ direct,” Jughead says. He finds a beat to gather his words. “Look, I’m not gonna slut shame my best friend. Archie is one of the good guys, but he’s also no milquetoast when it comes to his dating life. As in…he likes women, and women like him. Always have. Probably always will.” 

She purses a pair of perfectly painted lips, and Jughead already can tell this has not been what she hoped to hear.

“Alright, listen, I really don’t want to be responsible for your relationship here. You asked me, and I told you, so don’t look at me like that. It’s just the fact of his history.” Jughead sighs wearily and leans in a bit closer over the table. “But, running the risk of sounding like this is at all any of my business, I should probably also tell you that he _does_ really like you. Like, to the point where I have to hear about you constantly. And just so we’re clear, it’s fucking annoying.” 

The look that appears next is soft and relieved and somehow also bordering on mischievous. “Thank you, Jughead. Now I can see why Betty likes you.”

“That makes one of us,” he mumbles, eyes flicking down to his breakfast. His stomach gives a little squeeze, but he forces himself through a stalling bite of bacon anyway. When he looks back up, Veronica’s head is tilted, studying him. 

“You’re seeing her again tonight, aren’t you?” She points out, as this is the answer to his problems. 

“Supposedly,” he sighs, as he hasn’t heard from Betty yet, but if Veronica’s bringing it up that might be a good sign the two discussed it. It also reminds him he has to go buy condoms after this. He still doesn’t want to have any assumptions about how tonight is going to go, but he’s definitely not going to be caught unprepared again. Then again, he still can’t believe—can’t even _fathom_ —

“Do me a favor, Jughead.” He realizes he’s been staring at the ceiling, and meets her eye. “Tell me why you like her,” Veronica says, lacing her fingers together and twisting in the booth so that she’s fully facing him. Jughead gets the impression that the shift in body language was deliberate, because he now feels like he’s staring down the barrel of an interrogation.

“Don’t you have anywhere else to be? Anyone else to torture?” Jughead sighs. Discomfort is a word that doesn’t quite do justice to what he’s suddenly feeling. 

She makes a noise that is too polite and poised to classify as a snort, but by any other name would smell as sweet. “Archie is at my apartment waiting for me to return with breakfast, and we both know he has no concept of time when there’s not a game of some kind afoot. So, no. Humor me.” 

“How about I slip you a piece of paper to pass to Betty with the checked box for ‘yes’ on the question of whether I like her,” he offers instead.

“Betty values my opinion above nearly all else, Heathcliff. You wouldn’t want me coming back to her with a poor impression of you, would you?” She smiles, showing her teeth. 

“Jesus, Donna Corleone. Fine, fine,” he growls. He’s gotten enough of a taste of Veronica to know that she’s not particular towards letting things go and probably would follow through on her threats, so he might as well just get this over with. 

“Uh, she’s kind,” he starts. He squeezes his eyes shut, both because this is painfully embarrassing and because he’s a professional wordsmith and that’s the best he can come up with? _She’s kind?_  

“She’s smart in a way that’s just a fact, whereas I sometimes think I drop big words just to prove that I can. It’s probably some leftover angst from trying to demonstrate I was every bit the teenage special snowflake I wanted everyone to think I was, but—” A smile tips at his cheeks at the memory of her excitement over editing his book and giving her notes.

“And she’s… I mean, she had maybe 4 hours, and solved almost all the problems in my book in three points or less. And because she’s _kind_ and smart, she’s also understanding. It’s a gift.”

He pauses, realizing he’s still smiling, and now that he’s started thinking about this, it’s starting to scare him how many more reasons he has. She’s not _just_ smart—brilliant, really—she gets his stupid references, and makes quite a lot of her own. She _cares_ so deeply, even down to the tiniest detail. She takes a bit too much of that inward, bears the brunt for too many, but he knows it comes from a big heart and he has the sudden, unassailable desire to protect that.

But he doesn’t want to drop a three-foot long roll of parchment at Veronica’s feet, because that has a type of vulnerability to it he’s never quite known what to do with it, so he cuts off the tap of praise for Betty. Instead, he stares out the window, trying desperately to avoid meeting Veronica’s gaze. But, because he can’t help it, he adds, “And she’s beautiful. Obviously.”

He finally glances back over the table, and finds Veronica’s expression anything but the smug cheek he might’ve expected.

“You can’t hurt her,” Veronica says, her voice very still, but also with a clear warning. “She’s spent her whole life sacrificing herself for other people, and if she finally does something for herself and it’s _you_ and you break her, she might never try it again. You know that, right, Jughead?”

He doesn’t know what to say. On the one hand, Veronica is right—at least about the part of Betty self-sacrificing her way through misery. On the other hand, the ball isn’t his court. _She’s_ the one who asked for this to be just sex between them. _He’s_ the one who’s already signed a death warrant for his own feelings. 

“Jughead?” Veronica prompts, when the jukebox changes and he hasn’t yet replied. 

“Yeah, I know, Veronica,” he says quietly, with something nearly a grimace.

She nods, once, and very slowly. And then seems to be waiting for something. Finally, “Well, aren’t you going to give me the same kind of speech about Archie?” 

The question comes right as he’s taken a large bite of his breakfast, so much to Veronica’s displeasure, when he scoffs and says, _“Uh, no,”_ it’s through a mouthful of waffles. He chews and swallows. “No. Definitely not.” 

Her eyes narrow. 

“Is this some sort of _mano a mano_ duel for your masculinity, wherein you won’t admit to looking out for the emotional well-being of your best friend?” Veronica leans back into her seat, surveying him coolly, her fingers still laced and now settled over her knee. “Archie says you’re like his brother, but you don’t care to investigate whether or not I’m, say, the Succubus of de Balzac’s nightmares?” 

He gives her points for the reference, but still shakes his head. “First of all, you’re Betty’s best friend, so I figure you must be alright. Probably not a Succubus, at least. Secondly, Archie is like…Play-Doh. You can hit it with a hammer and it’ll still fluff up to its original shape. So I never worry about him.”

She stares at him for a long moment, as if she can’t decide how she feels about that answer. Then she smirks, brushes off her skirt of nonexistent crumbs, and stands. “Alright. Well, this has been a pleasure, Jughead. Very informative.”

“Anytime,” he mumbles, taking another bite of his breakfast.

Veronica hesitates in front of his table. “But remember, if you _do_ hurt her, I’m soon to leave the state and have seen every episode of _How To Get Away With Murder_.”

And then she’s gone, leaving Jughead with a whiff of jasmine perfume and the distinct feeling that she knows something he doesn’t.

.

.

. 

After Veronica leaves, Jughead finds he doesn’t have much left of an appetite, so he requests a to-go box and gathers his things. He’d rather go to the store now and get the condoms earlier rather than later, just in case one of Betty’s other friends spots him in the busier afternoon. Getting through that conversation with Veronica was hard enough, but the idea of running into someone like _Kevin_ whilst holding a box of condoms is enough to hasten his steps. 

(For someone so glued to his smart phone, Kevin is somehow unnervingly easy to picture in a tweed newsboy cap shouting, _“Extra, extra, read all about it!”_ to a bustling street and feels as though that says quite enough about how much he trusts that guy with information.)

Once at the grocery store, he beelines for the back, where he’d spotted the condoms last time when he’d been looking for toothpaste. There are a lot more options than he remembers, and casts a cursory sweep around to see no one is in the aisle with him before running his eyes over all the types. 

Ribbed…sounds good on paper, which means it’s probably useless. He thinks he’s tried those before and not noticed a difference. Warming? That sounds like the one that could go very wrong, very fast. Twisted Pleasure? Was he buying a goddamn romance novel? Sighing, he grabs the box that seems the least gendered, deciding that if it’s not being overly marketed to men or women it should be good for both of them.

He shoves the box under his arm and weaves through the rest of the store, but pauses in front of the flower stand as a thought occurs to him. He can’t possibly buy the two things together, can he? That would just look—who is he, Reggie? But then his mind’s eye conjures the delighted, shy smile he craves so deeply from Betty, and he thinks flowers would be an appropriate substitute for bringing her food.

So he lingers, deciding if he can’t find a bouquet that reminds him of Betty, he won’t buy them. But then, much to his chagrin, he spots the little posy of white and blue flowers off to the side. They’re pretty, delicately lace-like and somehow completely wild all at once, seeming as if they’d look at most at home as spots of color on a grassy meadow. They definitely remind him of Betty. Damn.

Sighing, he reads the label, which informs him it’s a bundle made from something called baby’s-breath and, most ironically: forget-me-nots.

 _Of fucking course._ He snorts at that, and begrudgingly bends over to pull them from their bucket. He can’t _not_ get her them now, though can’t decide whether he wants her to recognize the little blue flowers by name or not.

He shuffles into the express lane, desperate to get this over with. But, once again, _of fucking course,_ he recognizes the cashier as the pink-haired woman from before, the one who had teased Betty about Kevin finding out about their grocery run. He squints at her nametag, which reads _Toni_ in crisp little letters. 

__

Jughead attempts to hide the box of condoms under the flowers, which is ridiculously fruitless, considering she’s about to ring him up. At first, he’s not entirely sure she recognizes him, but as she lifts up the bouquet and sees what’s underneath, the look she passes him clearly states she does and even more clearly is knowingly amused.

__

“Big date, huh?” She says wryly, punching something into the register. 

__

He attempts to mumble something in between _“yeah, whatever”_ and _“please shut up”_ but it just comes out as an incoherent garble of noise. 

__

“What was that?” Toni asks, eyes dancing. 

__

“How much?” He mutters, his voice gruff.

__

“$25.83,” Toni chirps, and Jughead practically throws a wad of bills at her. He sticks around just long enough to get his receipt and change and then quickly turns on his heel, his face hot. 

__

He still can’t figure out why—he should be screaming from the rooftops that he’s got a solid shot at actually having sex in the near future, least of all with probably the most beautiful girl he’s ever known—not hastily shoving the box into his bag and blushing furiously.

__

This is the bowling alley all over again. Jughead knows that he’s not what one might call highly experienced, and nothing reveals that hand more than the lack of ability to even _say_ the word sex out loud. So he’d just sat there, stammering like an idiot, unable to tell Betty point blank that he wasn’t a virgin and aggressively kicking himself for bringing it up at all. 

__

It certainly doesn’t help that she had gone a bit tight-lipped after that, probably because she’s had solid relationships under her belt that involved regular sex and not a couple attempts at it scattered over the years. So. No pressure, right?

__

He tries to put it from his mind as he walks back to his motel. After throwing his bag onto the bed, he grabs the cheap, large ceramic mug next to the room’s Keurig, fills it with water, and deposits Betty’s flowers into it, to keep them fresh for later. 

__

And then he sits on his bed, unsure what to do besides beg himself not to think about tonight. He definitely won’t be able to focus on writing. Archie is probably going to be occupied with Veronica and her jasmine perfume for the next 24 hours.

__

He almost wants to call Reggie, which sends a horrified shock to his system—but the fact of the matter is, Reggie is the only person Jughead knows with the particular skill of sleeping around without getting emotions in the way. He knows it’s probably already way too late for that, but he might still be able to stave off _some_ of it.

__

If he’d ever be able to get past the shame of asking, he guesses Reggie probably wouldn’t judge him. Probably want to high-five him through the phone, if anything.

__

In the end, he never tries.

__

 

__

.

__

_._

__

_._

__

_Are we still on for tonight?_

__

A text from Betty stares at him, and he stares right back. A moment later, his phone pings with a little smiley face, also from her, and he sits up straighter, rubbing a hand up and down his face.

__

**_definitely. what were you thinking?_ **

__

_Pretty sure I still owe you a home-cooked meal! And we have HBO here!_

__

He swallows. It seems a roundabout way of describing the concept of Netflix and Chill, but he has no complaints. Betty’s house is probably still empty of anyone else. A thrill runs down his spine. **_ok. sounds good. what time?_**

__

_6?_

__

**_ok. see you then_  **

__

A little ellipsis appears and disappears briefly before another text arrives. _We could try something else if you don’t want to do that?_  

__

**_what? no, i like your idea_ **  

__

_Juggie!! Then you can’t just type “ok”! You’re a writer, so you should know that makes you sound like you didn’t want to._  

__

**_wtf, says who?_ **  

__

_The ever-shifting dynamics of language, that’s who! Also, Buzzfeed._  

__

She sends a link to an article about the type of person you are based on the way you say the word “okay” in texts, which he finds completely ridiculous but also thinks it’s the kind of thing his sister would find funny, so he screenshots it for her and asks Betty which she is.

__

(She’s, apparently, an “okay!” most of the time and it annoys him that it somehow makes sense.) 

__

They exchange a few more texts, but after a few minutes Betty says she wants to go for a run and will talk to him later. She sends along another smiley face, which is a little funny considering her lecture on online etiquette and that Jughead was under the impression those were reserved for fuckboys—but then again, only Betty could get away with an utter lack of ironic emoticons. 

__

He sends back simply “K”, because according to the article, that’s the one used by sociopaths, to which she replies with an eye roll emoji and _I’m going now!_  

__

He catches himself staring at his phone and smiling, which won’t do, so he quickly shoots off the screenshot to JB and busies himself with cleaning his motel room a bit. He wants to shower as close to dinner as possible, in order to maximize the amount of time he has before the smell of soap wears off, so cleaning feels like the only option, even if there isn’t much of it to do.

__

Halfway through, his phone rings, which he answers without looking at, considering only three people ever call him: Archie, who only calls when Jughead is not answering texts, his editor, who never calls without scheduling it, and JB, who calls him most of all. Unsurprisingly, it’s her.

__

“Oh my god, I love that,” she says, without preamble. She must be talking about the Buzzfeed article. “I knew you were socially inept. You _always_ just write o-k.” 

__

“So glad you’ve spent all those years studying psychology only to have your theories verified by the website made famous by videos of drunk people playing with puppies,” he drawls, putting her on speakerphone so that he can fold while he talks.

__

“Whatever,” she sighs. “I’m not the one who was reading it in my free time.” 

__

He opens his mouth to defend himself, but that would require backstory. Which would lead them to Betty. Which would lead to JB eagerly trying to analyze his feelings. Which he’s not sure he’s ready to make real by announcing to his sister.

__

So instead he says, “Fair. So, what’s up? How’d your last final go?”

__

“Good! I think. I mean, everything just feels weird. I keep thinking I’ve forgotten to show up for one and I’m gonna get a letter in a month being like, ‘uh, you realize you didn’t actually graduate, right?’”

__

“I can only imagine,” he says, which is the exact truth. He can literally only imagine.

__

“Honestly, Mr. College-Dropout, you really dodged a bullet. These past few weeks have been hell. But, oh well. It’s over. And I inexplicably wanted that useless millennial degree.” She pauses. “Anyway, when do you think the truck will be fixed and you’ll be leaving Riverwater, or whatever that place is called?”

__

He’s holding his very wrinkled dress shirt up to the light and wondering if it’s worth ironing now, or if he should wait until he needs it for the graduation ceremony, so he’s a bit distracted when he replies, “Not sure yet, but I can ask tonight.”

__

“Dumbass, what do you think business hours are? Why would you wait until tonight?” JB snorts. When Jughead can’t come up with an excuse fast enough, she makes a suspicious sounding noise. “Wait, wait. Isn’t your mechanic a woman?”

__

“Uh, I don’t think I ever said that,” Jughead replies quickly. Too quickly, because he actually has no idea if he’s mentioned Betty’s gender before. Probably? No. Wait, yes, he did.

__

“Okay. You sound like you’re pooping an egg over there, which means I’m onto something,” JB says, with unnerving triumph. “Hold on.” 

__

There’s a slight click, as her voice suddenly sounds farther away. “Did you just put me on speakerphone?”

__

“Yeah, so I can text Archie,” she says, casually, as if announcing the time of day. Jughead makes a stutteringly indignant noise, but JB shushes him. “Okay, he’s replying—oh my god, Jug! Her name is _Betty?_ What the fuck, is she fifty?”

__

“No, she’s—she’s not _fifty_ —and I’m not—Jesus, would you stop laughing?”

__

“I’m just picturing you, like, at some romantic candlelight dinner and holding hands with Betty White, is all,” JB says, coming down from her giggles. “I’m sorry—that’s so cool, Jug! What’s she like? I wanna know everything. Well, not _everything_. You know.”

__

“I’m gonna kill Archie. And I really don’t want to talk about this,” he mutters. “Especially not with you.”

__

“Why not with me? Everyone else in my major has their friends and families climbing over each other to get a free therapy session.” 

__

“I don’t know, JB, are you sitting in an armchair already?”

__

“You know, I’m so ready for that joke to be over. Come June 1st, I’ll have an actual, bona-fide psychology degree and you won’t be able to pull this shit,” she huffs.

__

“—It’s okay, I’m just gonna buy you a nice big, cozy armchair for your birthday so you can diagnosis my bullshit from the comfort of your own home, and—”

__

“Quit trying to change the subject, Jug,” she says, sounding suddenly exasperated and perhaps a little offended. “Come on. Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

__

Jughead sighs and sits down next to his phone. “Because I already know it’s not going to end well and I didn’t really want to think about it,” he admits. “Sorry, I _was_ going to tell you about her, just…not until I’d left town.”

__

“Why wouldn’t it end well?” JB says, sounding uncharacteristically measured. He wonders if this is his first peek into her therapist voice. 

__

“I really don’t want to talk about this,” he insists, but knows it’s going to fall on deaf ears.

__

“Jughead, why won’t it end well?” She repeats after a moment, as he expected.

__

“Because it’s me?” He huffs. “Because I always find some way to destroy a good thing? Or, less apocalyptically: because she lives here and I live there? There’s just no happy endgame, JB.”

__

“You’re being really dramatic, as usual,” his sister says, halfway between amusement and sympathy. “So, you’ll try long distance. Big deal. It’s the digital age, old man. You can text and email and FaceTime to your heart’s content. And you can work from anywhere, right?”

__

He exhales noisily. As the thoughts come up, he realizes they’re true. “Yeah, I’d…well, I figure I’d be open to doing that. If we got to that point. But she told me she just wants to keep it—well, uh, physical.”

__

There’s a strangled coughing across the line, followed by, _“La, la, la—I didn’t hear that!”_  

__

“There was a reason I didn’t want to talk to you about this.” He falls backwards onto the bed and stares up at his ceiling fan, which is moving in slow, rhythmic circles, almost like the hands of a clock. His room is hot with pre-summer humidity and his clothes are stuck to his skin with sweat. 

__

It feels like rain again. 

__

“So, that’s what she wants. So we’re gonna do it that way.” 

__

“Wait, you’re not gonna tell her that you like her? You’re not gonna even _try?”_

__

“She knows I like her,” Jughead insists, though, to be fair, he’s never actually said it in such explicit terms. He’s just talked around it using veiled codas, haphazardly asked her on a double date set up by his best friend, and made out with her for half an hour. But, still. She must know. 

__

“Does she know how much?” JB says softly, after a long pause.

__

“What? I never said—” 

__

“You don’t have to.” She sounds almost sad for him, which he hates. He’s the one who is supposed to look out for _her_. “You’re my big brother. I know you. You wouldn’t be trying to hide her from me if you didn’t have Emotions-with-a-capital-E.”

__

JB’s voice bounces around menacingly in his thoughts.

__

_Does she know how much?_  

__

How much is _much_ , really? He thinks about his conversation with Veronica, and the very long list of pros in Betty’s column. He thinks about the flowers sitting in a mug in his bathroom. He thinks about the soft smile that he wears now, the one that immediately appeared on his face at the mere thought of her.

__

“Get out of your own head,” JB cuts through his thoughts. She sounds unusually serious. “You do this. You _always_ do this. You’re so self-destructive because you don’t live in the moment, and you’re always thinking ten steps ahead. You know Jug, you’re a good writer because you’re observant, but you observe within your own life rather than live any of it.” 

__

He inhales slowly, processing this. It twists at his gut, and knows she’s right, which only means he has nothing to say. But she also must know _why_ he’s this way, and he waits for her to continue. But when she doesn’t, eventually, he ventures, “Come on, JB. What, I’m supposed to undo all those formative years of constantly worrying about Dad—in one night?” 

__

“You have to start somewhere. You could at least _try_.” 

__

“Sure, okay,” he scoffs. “All those years of worrying about how we’d get through the next month, or where’d we find him passed out next? Poof, gone, over it? Signing us up for SNAP in his name, or working all through high school to save up for something I half-expected to be his funeral? Fuck, do you even know how many times I expected the cops to show up at our door and tell us he was dead?” 

__

“Yes,” she says, very quietly and after a palpable pause. 

__

“No, Jellybean, you don’t,” he snaps, almost unaware he’s used her full nickname for the first time in years. “Because it was my job to keep you away from that shit. So, yeah, I think ahead. I like to know what I’m getting into and how I’m getting out of it. But I _had_ to be this way. For you. But—thanks, thanks _so much,_ for that gripping analysis of my childhood trauma.”

__

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. It comes out scalding and bitter and a voice that he hates so much, because it reminds him of his father in one of his drunken, angry stupors, yelling about how it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t hold job A, job B, or job C; how it wasn’t his fault his wife had left him, or how it wasn’t his fault he couldn’t be there for his kids. 

__

His sister doesn’t say anything for a long time. “Okay,” she says finally, in a cracking voice. “You’re right. I don’t know what it was like for you. Dad…he and I always had a different relationship than you two, and I forget that sometimes.” 

__

She sniffles, and he realizes she’s crying. _Shit_. “JB—” 

__

“No, really. I get it,” she sniffs again, and god, he hates himself so much. How the fuck could he make his little sister cry like that? 

__

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he cuts in, half-choked. “Please, don’t cry—I’m just…feeling a lot right now and as you might now, I’m not super advanced when it comes to that. Emotional intimacy just freaks me out. I didn’t mean…” 

__

“I know,” she replies, and he’s relieved to hear a bit of a smile in it. She takes a long breath, sniffling a little less. “Look, I poked you. You said you didn’t want to talk about Betty, and I just kept needling at you. I just did it because I want you to talk about things more, so they don’t build up so much. That’s all, you know?” 

__

He sighs. “Yeah.”

__

“Okay,” she says, after another long moment. “I should go. Um…you’re gonna let me know when you’re on the road, right? Like, when you’re gonna be close to Chicago?”

__

“Yeah, of course. I said I would,” he reminds her, as she brought this up the last time they talked. “I love you. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

__

“I love you too, Jug,” she says, and all he can see is his baby sister, curled up, asleep on a couch in 2005, looking so small, and completely unaware she’d seen her mother for the last time.

__

Her dark hair aglow with the light of a New Years Countdown on the TV, snow falling madly outside, his father gone for three days after, leaving him alone to the moment that he realized his childhood was over, and had been for a while.

.

.

.

He showers immediately after getting off the phone, desperate to get history off of him.

__

Jughead makes a lot of jokes about armchair psychology to his sister, but he’s too proud of how ridiculously right she is to really be upset with her. He’s glad she put her big brain to work the way that she did, because she’s definitely a little too on-the-nose about everything she said to him.

__

He does like Betty, and he knows there is a conversation looming about _how much_. He did keep her from his sister on purpose, probably because of that, because they don’t keep secrets. He does observe his life more than he lives it. 

__

He stands under the spray, running that last thought over in his head. _Don’t think, just do it,_ he tries to tell himself.

__

Maybe he should go buy some Nike’s for branded moral courage. 

__

_Betty doesn’t want anything more. And of course she doesn’t, she just got out of a long-term relationship a few months ago._  

__

_And maybe,_ he thinks, allowing a bitter shred of hope. Maybe, down the line…if they stay in contact… 

__

He curses to himself, and cuts off the shower and the thought at the same time. 

__

“Don’t think, just do,” he mutters aloud.

.

.

.

He rings the doorbell, bouncing on his feet. The concrete is still wet with the rain that broke the heat an hour before. The clout of humidity no longer sits on his skin, but now he’s got a couple of condoms in his pocket that weigh like a stone and the sweet-smelling flowers that waft distractingly underneath his nose, and he’s somehow far more nervous than he’d been last night. 

__

But last night, he’d had a buffer. He’d had the mood-killing presence of Archie Andrews and the sharp cat-eye of Veronica Lodge to keep things light.

__

Betty answers the door looking brilliant in a simple white tank top and a denim blue skirt. Her hair is down for another night, and he hopes he gets to run his fingers through it again. And, fulfilling his wish, she flashes him his favorite smile when her eyes fall on the flowers. “Are those for me?”

__

“Nope, they’re for me. Just wanted you to see them,” he says, relieved his voice comes out the appropriate measure of dry. “Hold them for me, would you?”

__

“Happily,” she sighs, half-teasing, beckoning him into the house as she takes the flowers from him. She gives them a little sniff, looking at him from over the blooms from under her eyelashes like some sort of interlude of a fairytale. 

__

He’s screwed. 

__

The door shuts and locks gently. Jughead kicks off his shoes and gets as far as the foyer before he realizes Betty isn’t right behind him. She’s pressed up against the door, biting her lip and looking at him expectantly. “You’re not going to say hi to me?” 

__

He’s so, _so_ screwed. 

__

Jughead crosses the room in about two steps, but slows right before he reaches her, because he wants to be sure what she means. She nods, almost imperceptibly, and so his hand sweeps out and cups her jaw, lifting her face up towards his so he can drop a light, greeting kiss on her lips. Or, at least, that’s what he means for it to be. 

__

Her arms hook around his neck as she rises onto her toes in order to deepen the kiss. The flowers, still in her hands, tickle at his ear, and he opens his mouth to welcome her all the better. 

__

She breaks for a bit of air and whispers, “Hi.” 

__

“Hi,” he says back. He has the urge to add, _I missed you_ , but it’s been less than 24 hours since he last saw her and that’s about the exact opposite of keeping things casual, so he bites it down. 

__

Betty drops onto the balls of her feet and takes his hand, leading him through the house, which, now that he’s away from the flowers, realizes smells amazing. He gives a noticeable sniff of the air, and Betty beams at him over her shoulder. “I made salad, lasagna, and a blackberry pie. You _seem_ like a chocolate cake kind of guy, so I was going to do that, but then I didn’t have time to go to the store and I had these frozen berries, so—” 

__

“Betty,” he interrupts, grinning down at her. He’s glad he’s not the only one capable of rambling. “It’s okay, pie is great. I just…can’t believe how lucky I am to get a home cooked meal from the famous Betty Cooper kitchen.” 

__

She flushes, mumbling something that sounds like _oh good_. “So, how was your day?” She asks, once they’re in the kitchen and has begun the hunt for a vase. 

__

“Okay. Had a fun conversation about Archie with Veronica.” Betty pivots, raising an eyebrow, so he adds, “She cornered me at Pop’s and wanted to know his dating history.”

__

Betty doesn’t seem that surprised to hear this. “Of course she did,” she sighs, moving to the sink to fill the found vase with water. “Veronica is going to be a lawyer. She loves to do her research before holding court. So, does Archie have some sort of dark history a best friend should know about?”

__

“He’s had a drink or two thrown on him,” he admits, which is more than he would’ve said to Veronica. “The first time, he deserved it. The second time was a joke, because it was me, right after the first. He wasn’t too happy about that.”

__

“What did he do to deserve it?” Betty asks, looking mildly worried, and he realizes he’s undersold the sarcasm.

__

“Broke up with a girl the week before Valentine’s.” Betty cringes. “I _told_ him that it was just a consumerist holiday made up to sell chocolate, but also that he should wait, because that’s the decent, capitalist thing to do. He agreed, but he’s impulsive, so then he did it anyway.” 

__

She rolls her eyes, fluffing the flowers into their new home. She smiles approvingly down at them, and then back at Jughead. “So, I shouldn’t be worried about Archie for her sake?” 

__

“Not likely,” he assures her. “I mean, I won’t lie, he usually gets rosy-eyed at this stage, but he’s definitely more smitten than usual. I think Veronica holds all the cards here.”

__

Betty makes a face, and he wonders if an edge of double meaning has reappeared. But it’s quickly gone, and before he knows it, she’s shooing him towards the dining table, where a steaming dinner awaits.

__

“I can’t believe you did all this,” he murmurs, piling lasagna onto a plate for her. “I’m definitely going to have to put out now.”

__

He means it to be a light joke, and Betty does smile, but it’s something more like a smirk, secretive and pleased. It’s a look he hasn’t quite seen so plainly on her before—hasn’t quite seen on many people, actually. He recognizes it, dimly, as desire.

__

She holds his gaze so long that he almost visibly shivers before she breaks away, reaching forward to take her plate from him. The moment passes, but he doesn’t forget it.

.

.

.

Afterwards, he rises to clear the plates, but Betty puts a hand on his arm. He pauses, looking over at her, and his heart gives a hefty slam as he realizes how closely she’s standing. “Leave it,” she says softly, and then wraps one finger around his own, leading him away from the table with only that little link between them. 

__

“This is okay, right?” She asks, at the bottom of the stairs. He realizes where they’re going. “I just…we’re not taking it slow, right? So why bother with the pretense of a movie?”

__

It might be the moment that he should tell her this is probably the point of no return for him. He might not even have the scope of it until tomorrow morning. He might need to warn her that he’s got far too many feelings already, and this is only going to make it a lot harder for him to rumble away. 

__

But when he pauses too long, and she drops his hand and his eyes, and she’s asking him if he’s changed his mind, he realizes that he can’t lose this moment.

__

_Don’t think, do._

__

He’ll accept whatever comes after this.

__

So he kisses her with an answer to her question, and she giggles against his mouth, laces their fingers, and leads him upstairs. He can barely wait until they’ve reached the top of it for him to find her lips again, but this time, he hoists her into the air. She squeals in delight as he murmurs for her to tell him where to carry her, and she points over his shoulder to the room with the door left ajar.

__

He moves them through, into the pink room with the flowery wallpaper that seems so undeniably _Betty_ and yet aggressively _not,_ but right now he doesn’t care much for analyzing anything but the literal woman before him. He deposits her onto the bed, and it squeaks as he settles on top of her, his hands quickly finding something to study along the soft skin of her stomach.

__

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells her, for the first time, and thinks it could be the last words he’ll ever say. 

__

Their breaths mingle in a familiarly frenzied kiss, which Jughead breaks in order to move to her neck. They might be skipping a few dates and steps, but he can still slow this down in the moment. He wants this to last.

__

He manages a solid scrape at languid kissing that could last five minutes or an hour and he’ll never know, but eventually, she starts to squirm beneath him, her hands becoming unruly with wanderlust. She moans as his teeth tug gently at the skin where her neck meets her shoulder, a noise he wants to hear again, and again, and _again_ and it’s the moment that changes the scene.

__

Betty shifts beneath him, her hands moving to the hem of her shirt, and he sits up in order for her to have the room to pull it over her head. It’s barely off before she’s pushing at his own, and murmuring something teasing about forgoing his usual eight layers of protective clothing, and, _god_ , he can’t take this.

__

He allows a moment to enjoy the view of her breasts against the triangular scraps of lacy blue fabric before dropping back down in kisses of worship while a spare hand finds it’s way under her skirt. He meets her eyes for permission, and she nods vigorously, so his fingers gently trace the slip of her underwear.

__

In all the moments before this, there’s been a staccato of a song in his chest every time he looks at her. Not always so loud, not always so tender, but constant, like the low plucking of a single, vibrating string. Call it nerves or call it something he cannot name, he realizes it was always there, because it is not here now.

__

Right now, he can only focus on the sounds of shallow breathing beneath him, growing more and more impatient and gasping as his fingers move further, deeper, circling her as she once did him in the bed of a river.

__

The look of elsewhere in her eyes when they lock on him burns into his skin, flushed with the realization _he_ is pushing her there. One of her hands digs nails against his arm, the other overhead and gripping into a pillow as she comes open-mouthed, his name broken on her lips.

__

He meets her eyes in a question when she doesn’t say anything else. He thinks he’s done right by her, but there’s been so much silence that he’s starting to second-guess it, considering he’s only ever done that a handful of times. Her mouth opens and closes once before finding the word _condom_ and hissing it madly.

__

He digs one out of his pants pocket and shucks them off in record time while she shimmies out of her skirt and underwear. He crawls back onto the bed to meet her, and the kiss she greets him with is different, as if she’s somehow kissing him with her whole body this time. Without breaking, she takes the condom from him, tears it open, and snakes a hand down to roll it on for him. She gives him a few light strokes as she does and his whole body shudders, but he’s fairly sure he won’t last long if she keeps going, so he gently moves her hand away as they line themselves up.

__

It feels simple, obvious, and right, like now that they’re here, he realizes this was always where she would lead him. It’s a hand he’s taken into something beyond them both and he wonders if he’ll be able to keep moving forward, or if this is perhaps what Orpheus felt like. 

He shifts once to move inside her for the first time, and the world slows down, pulls back, drops in and repeats, like the curl and crest of the ocean wave he never quite understood the appeal of until now. 

__

He moves as slowly as he can, savoring it, dragging along her, and thinking about only how beautiful she looks and whispering such thoughts feverishly against her skin, fumbling in the soft pink light of a warm evening. There’s no sound in the world but the stitch between breaths.

__

As his hips start stuttering, he knows he’s not got long left, so he dips a thumb between them where they’re joined, hoping it’ll be enough to carry her with him. He comes just before her, and then he feels her tighten around him, murmur a satisfied but completely incomprehensible word, and it’s done.

__

He collapses above her and they stay that way for a long, infinite moment. The late sky is just barely rosy beyond her window. His chest rises and falls with a shaky breath as her hands gently comb through the damp hair behind his ear.

__

The rhythm of her finger looping through a curl and then brushing faintly along the skin of his neck is what brings back that plucking in his heart. Only this time, it’s not so faint.

__

Finally, he pushes up on his elbows and meets her eyes. Neither know what to say.

.

.

.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: none this time except for a bad joke by me wherein i say the _sound of silence,_ but the lyrics at the top are from _both sides now_ by joni mitchell. 
> 
> so, does jughead fuck?
> 
> *jughead makes love
> 
> i hoped you all liked this, the literal end of the slow burn (now it's just buurn) even though i've already been fondly told that this chapter was hopelessly depressing, lmao
> 
> but it was a jug chapter, and one that i decided had to be this way, because he's been half-kicking and screaming his whole way to this point and i think there had to be a hard look at _why,_ so that he can try to move past it. but happier!! times!! directly ahead!!
> 
> if you liked it, or even if i made you hopelessly depressed, please let me know what you thought in a comment. this was a big chapter, in a lot of ways (including longest yet, at 8k) so the feedback always means so much. esp since this was the first real, fully realized smut scene, even though i wrote it in a semi abstract, voiceless way. but. yeah!
> 
> again, big thanks to saralisa/SRLoftis for betaing. pls go check out her fics too!


	12. Chapter 12

_And you want to travel with him, and you want to travel blind_

_And you think maybe you'll trust him_

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She wakes slowly.

Or, she becomes vaguely conscious of the leg slung over her own and the arm gently strewn across her bare stomach while still beyond in the land of nod, and her dreamless sleep takes a twist of dawning awareness as she hears a breath not her own.

Then the memory bubbles up, including the answer as to why there’s another person curled against her. Their bodies spent, him stretched atop her, breathing shakily, almost trembling, as she raked her fingers through his hair and held him against her chest.

When he finally looked at her, his eyes moving rapidly across every corner of her face, it was the first time in her life that she’d ever felt actually empty-headed, long, stretched-out-silence kind of _speechless._ And didn’t know what to make of that same quiet from Jughead, especially as someone who literally works for his words.

In the end, the only word she found was the very one she can’t get used to: _stay_.

Later, trying to sleep, she had a sinking feeling that she had no idea what they’d gotten themselves into, because whatever it was that happened between them, it wasn’t just sex. It _definitely_ wasn’t fucking, which is probably what it was supposed to be—or at least something she might’ve been a bit more prepared for, as that would feel more in line with the idea of _getting it out of their systems._

She hasn’t had a whole lot of partners in her life, but she’s had enough to know the first time with a new person often isn’t like that. It’s usually a lot more awkward, a lot less sensual, and with a hell of a lot less orgasms. But with him, it was ambient and reverent and a heady kind of all over _good._

Now, in the touches of a new morning, she thinks she knows the word for what it was.

She bites down on the thought.

Her eyes open with a light flutter, at first on the wall of little pink rosebuds. Then she shifts slightly, careful not to move too much, and twists her neck in order to look over at Jughead. His face looks peaceful in slumber, as most do, but also somehow relieved to have found it at all. She memorizes the dark circles under his eyes and knows he’s not a person to whom sleep comes easily.

She allows herself the moment wherein she traces the wild brow down along the cut of his jaw and the curve of his lips, slightly parted with soft snores. He has a carved, strange kind of handsomeness, as one could find the sculptor’s thumb in the crease where his eye becomes cheek.

(She’s never quite been able to study it for so long, and she finds she loves that little line.)

Betty doesn’t know what she expected to feel, looking at him, but it’s probably not this: the catch in her heart that she feels all the way into her throat. She digs her teeth into her lip and almost feels like crying, because this feels painfully like goodbye.

Which is ridiculous, because he’s literally asleep on top of her, and has known her body in one night as much as anyone before took several tries. And he’s everywhere here already; his light blue jean jacket tossed haphazardly onto her desk chair, his pants carelessly on the floor, the smell of him on her skin, sheets, and room—but faraway, in the part of her mind that knows where to hiss, he’s already gone.

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She’s busying herself by playing with hovering fingers, dancing them just barely above his arm, swaying a rhythm from end to the other. She doesn’t want to wake him, doesn’t want to move, but wants to get as close to touching him as she can.

Eventually, she feels him move slightly and she looks up. His eyes are open on her, and she doesn’t know how long they’ve been that way. The softness there makes her think it might’ve been a while.

There’s a lot of blue in the dawn.

“Hi,” she whispers, breaking into a smile despite herself.

“Hi,” he returns, in what is dangerously becoming a pattern. She hears the crinkling of sheets as he moves closer, kissing her firmly, and she feels him already half-hard against her leg. She’s not sure if it’s just because it’s morning or if she has anything to do with it, but she may deepen the kiss and rut against him slightly to test the theory.

“Fuck off,” he laughs happily against her mouth, once he realizes what she’s doing.

She giggles as he rolls them, both of his arms wrapping around her now. “Good—fucking—morning—to—you—too,” he mutters jokingly between kisses, but she still agrees wholeheartedly. She’d thought their little domestic charade on Friday morning had been the pinnacle of such a concept, but as their hands move across one another and their lips mold, she realizes she had been wrong.

She has calloused hands where his are soft, but unlike her past partners, who had found it disconcerting that the sweet blonde thing they’d asked out to dinner actually had the hands of someone who dared to do their job, Jughead seems like it. He pins them overhead as he kisses her, rubbing at the rough pads of her hands with his own, lacing and unlacing their fingers while they move lazily against one another. The sun rises mutedly beyond.

The whole room smells so heavily like sex that she’s not sure what’s the work of her body right now or lingering from before, but when one of his hands disappears from her back and reemerges at her clit, his fingers run so smoothly against her that she knows the musk is not just from last night.

“God, you’re good at that,” she hisses, as two fingers curl within her.

“It’s all those years of bowling,” he teases, eyes dark. “You hold the ball just like—”

“You are so _not_ talking about _bowling_ right now,” she interrupts, laughing, though it quickly breaks off into something else as his thumb comes into the fray, almost as if to prove a point. He grins as she whines, and as lovely as his fingers feel, she wants much more. “Get a condom,” she instructs breathily, which seems to surprise him, as he knows she hasn’t come yet.

He practically falls off the bed in his haste to lean over to where his pants are strewn on the floor, but eventually he maneuvers a way to reach the pocket where the condoms are without his legs leaving the bed, or her.

Upon return, he does that thing again where he’s clearly trying to slow her down, and she wonders if this is him trying to tell her something. But in the end he gives up trying to distract her and lets her stroke at him. He mutters something indistinct and drops his head into her neck. It’s not quite _power_ she feels a rush of, but something strong still. Pride, maybe, as he hitches against her.

“Okay, keep going and that condom is going to be useless,” he mumbles shakily as he nips at the flesh of her breast. She’s far too wound up for him to start doing that, so she rips at the foil and they roll it on together.

She hopes that the idle morning sun, now streaming brightly through the window—and the fact that they’ve now done this once before—and that the stakes aren’t quite as high—will be enough to keep this light between them. She doesn’t know if she can handle another round of the kind of slow, quixotic sex-that-isn’t-quite-sex that laid a raw little thought on her chest like the ghost of a kiss.

But that’s what happens. It’s morning sex, after all, which is always lazier and something more intangible anyway. He slides into her and maintains an almost agonizingly unhurried march onwards, as if he’s actively determined to draw this out as much as he can. And it feels so good and _full_ that Betty can’t find a reason to flip them over and set her own pace, especially when his mouth moves around a pebbled breast and a hand is exploring the other.

“Tell me what you want,” he asks, but he can’t want that answer.

 _“More,”_ she whispers instead. It’s not a lie until, _“Faster.”_

She’s never understood the phrase “fooling around,” as it always seemed like an almost silly way to describe such casual attempts at something so intimate. But she gets it now. She feels foolish, this was _all_ foolish, this was an idea that’s winding them down a path she doesn’t know and yet would never want to stray from.

She looks him in the eye and doesn’t know what she hopes to see there, but his forehead drops against hers, fringes of his black hair obscuring her view.

This time, they come together. She triggers it, she thinks, clenching around him, back bending off the bed, him high on his knees as if in worship.

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After the less flowery parts of sex are taken care of—peeing, cleaning up, tying off condoms and disposing of them—they slide back under the sheets wordlessly.

He pushes her hair back from her face, like he was once tentative to do. She has no idea what time it is, nor does she care to. He settles onto his back, and she nestles against his chest and catalogues the freckles there, while his hands weave absentmindedly through her hair. Eventually, his stomach rumbles, which brings her back into the moment.

“You are literally always hungry,” she murmurs fondly, slipping her legs between his and moving a foot up and down his calf. She’d be happy to stay in bed all day, but even she’ll have to eat soon. She waits for him to make some terrible joke about working up an appetite, but instead he just sighs heavily.

“Yeah. Hungry,” he says, scratching at his nose.

It’s an odd shift in mood, so she shifts in order to look up at him. “Juggie?”

He glances at her for a moment before his eyes bounce up to nothing in particular. “I mean, you crave something long enough, and it never comes, it manifests in other ways.”

She smoothes a palm against his chest, considering this. “What do you mean?”

He almost looks like he’s about to say _never mind,_ but, after some visible warring with himself, he folds to defeat. “My mom took off when I was fourteen. I somehow don’t blame her, because I think she was right to get away from my dad. He’s not a bad person, but they never are. He’s an alcoholic who dragged us through a lot of hell. I mostly just wanted her to come back for my sister, and me. Wanted her to want us. Craved it, like I had never craved anything. It was raw. Right around the same time, I shot up five inches and started eating for ten. Felt constantly hungry since, more or less. Coincidence, or maybe not.”

His eyes briefly fall out of focus, as if searching a memory. But then he breaks it, turning back to her and trying to smile. “Or, that’s the analysis my psych-major sister dropped on my doorstep completely unprompted, anyway. I’m pretty sure she uses me as the guinea pig for most of her psychosomatic theories. Personally, I think all the food is about fifty percent habit, at this point.”

“Oh, Juggie,” she says softly, not sure what else she could possibly say. She knows he’s trying to play it off already, so she sits up in order to lean over him, grasp his face with two hands, and kiss him with what she hopes he knows is reassurance: he’s _wanted_.

(That’s never been the problem.)

After she pulls back, he lets out a long breath, and doesn’t look away from her. She notices his hand is still in her hair, cupping at her ear, his thumb swiping against her cheek.

It seems like the kind of thing he hasn’t talked about a long time, by the way his mouth curls around the words and how they come from somewhere wrought beyond him. She wants him to know how much it means that he trusted her with that kind of secret, but doesn’t know where to start. There’s a lot moving behind his eyes, too fast to catch it all.

“So apparently, I’m great at pillow-talk,” he announces finally, his arm coming around her shoulder, guiding her back down into the crook of his side. “How was _your_ childhood, in 150 characters or less?”

She laughs. “Google _type-A_ and that’s most of what you need to know, if we’re going for brevity. Or, we could play twenty questions?”

“Compromise, good, this is good,” he says, and she can hear him forcing the merriness, because that’s the one book she wrote. But she thinks he might need this, so she plays along. “Uh, any pets? A goldfish I don’t know about lurking in this room, currently very traumatized?”

“We had a little orange cat named Caramel when I was a kid. I named her, of course,” she says, which makes his eyebrows shoot up.

“We had this big, stupid, drooling sheepdog I had the utter gall to name _Hot Dog,_ so no judgment,” he offers.

“Seems we both had a thing for food names,” she tells him, something that makes his eyes soften at the corners. “I guess my next pet will have to carry on the tradition. I always thought Polenta was cute as a name.”

“Polenta?” He repeats, scoffing. He adjusts so that they’re facing, a hand under his ear propping up his head, as the other one leads lightly up and down her hip. “We can do better than that, come on. What about…Burger. Burger the dog, that’s kind of cool.”

“I’m not naming my hypothetical pet after something you can find on the menu at Pop’s, Juggie,” she insists. “Broaden your horizons a bit.”

“Yeah, well. Fine. I’ll keep that one for myself, then,” he says, rolling his hand further down again, so that it cradles her ass and pulls her more flush against him. His voice drops into a murmur. “But you don’t get to start complaining when I show up with this super cool dog named Burger who gets all the attention I usually reserve for you.”

“I’ll try not to hold my breath,” Betty drawls, trying to drown the lingering thought that by the time he’d ever get close to a dog, he’d probably be far from her life.

He smiles, and nods at her. “We got off topic. Your turn.”

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The game continues for a little while longer, but soon they both agree that they can’t get through a single question without a ten minute tangent, so eventually, the conversation just drifts into a debate on the worth of historical accuracy in books.

Jughead is a purist and a realist, by his own definition, and argues that romanticizing the past as a place that wasn’t as harsh and as cruel as it was demeans the value of modern rights advancement. He says that right as his hand finds something to do along her backside, and points out that even seventy years ago, she wouldn’t have had the social freedom to openly do what they’re doing.

She rolls her eyes and, in return, explains that it doesn’t matter, because people look to historical fiction for escapism, and want to feel represented by what they see. She points out that as a straight white guy—which she clarifies first, not wanting to assume after all those years of watching Veronica and Cheryl fume over bisexuality erasure—he’s automatically slated to appear and that he doesn’t know what it feels like to try to scrape to relate a character with the basest similarities.

He raises his eyebrows at that, acquiesces to her point, and then whispers that she’s way too smart for him. He kisses her then, with something new, but before she can start to wonder what it is, she hears noises that sends her heart into a flurry: the measured shutting of the front door, and the vague, bouncing laughter of children. Oh, crap.

She _forgot_.

Betty sits straight upright, which forces Jughead to jerk back in surprise, lest he be whacked in the face by her shoulder.

“Shit,” she hisses, rolling out of bed and nearly tripping as her foot snags on the tangled sheets, draped halfway onto the floor. She can’t believe this slipped her mind so completely, because Polly has a _key_ — _Polly has a key_ and she’s _downstairs_ , and she’d forgotten all about the barbeque.

“Shit!” She says again, as Jughead pushes himself up on one arm and watches her scramble around the room and hop madly into the first pairs of moderately clean underwear and jeans she can find.

“What?” He says, like he’s been repeating it, and for all she knows, he has been. “Betty, what’s wrong?”

And then he seems to hear it; the sound of murmuring and moving around downstairs. Betty forcefully tugs a blue cotton shirt over her head, her hair flapping in her face with the blunt force of it. She blows it off her forehead and says, simply, “Get dressed, Juggie. My sister is here.”

That seems to propel him into motion, as his eyes widen and he hurls his legs over the side of the bed to pull on his boxers and pants. “I forgot, I can’t believe I forgot,” Betty huffs, pushing her palms into her forehead to keep them from curling into fists. “When it’s nice out, my sister and her husband’s family always have a barbeque on one Sunday of the month, and we’re doing it here today because our mom is out of town. _Ohh,_ I was supposed to make potato salad!”

She feels a step past frustrated, veering dangerously into panicked, and Jughead seems to notice. He crosses the room towards her, still sans shirt, and rubs circles at the back of her neck. “It’s okay, everyone forgets stuff.”

 _“I_ don’t,” she insists. “I just…my thoughts have been kind of elsewhere.” She gives him a look, because elsewhere means _him,_ and she hasn’t decided if what she’s feeling is fond exasperation or just the regular kind.

Then it all sets back in: her sister downstairs, the dishes she didn’t do, the food she failed to make, the fear of disappointing everyone when it becomes obvious she had completely forgotten they were coming. Oh, how _could_ she have— Her breath hitches, and Jughead’s arms immediately wrap around her.

“Hey, hey,” he says softly. She leans into him, briefly allowing a moment of the stillness against the running list of mistakes she’s made in the past two days, which feels like more than she’s made in the past two years.

“I said to get dressed, Juggie. You’re still not wearing a shirt,” she says. She means for it to sound scolding, but it manifests as a giggle, because she can hardly complain when her face is buried into his bare chest and counting the fluid scats of jazz in his heartbeat.

“I can’t find it,” he admits, releasing a sound that’s almost a scoff, but far too tender to really be classified as one. “I think you threw it somewhere into the incessantly pink void last night.”

“Mm-hmm,” she tuts suspiciously, looking up at him. But she glances around, and doesn’t spot it for a few moments, until she sees the white, ribbed tank undershirt camouflaged on top of her equally white lampshade. She points at it, and he untangles himself in order to retrieve it. She hates how much she misses him immediately.

“I’d invite you to stay for the barbeque, but—” _Meeting the family would be decidedly relationship-y,_ she thinks. “—I don’t think you deserve the full brunt of meeting my sister-in-law Cheryl for the first time in these circumstances.”

Jughead’s expression twists just as he’s pulling on the shirt, covering his face, so she doesn’t see it for long. It’s something that makes her hesitant, wondering if he wants to be invited to stay. The look on his face last night when she’d whispered the request into his ear makes her wonder it twice.

“Betty?” Polly’s voice floats upstairs. “Are you up there?”

“Yeah, Pol!” She shouts, not moving but to throw her voice through the house. “I’ll be down in a sec!”

 _Stay,_ she tries to will herself to say, but it’s still the one word she’s most afraid of.

Jughead looks at her as he loops his arms into his jean jacket, almost as if he can hear the thought echoing through her head. He seems to be waiting for her to say something. _Maybe the sex changed things._

Didn’t it?

But she’s not wrong about Cheryl, who would be merciless if she knew what’d happened upstairs, and in her childhood bedroom, no less. Even Polly, in her way, would try to embarrass her. She definitely can’t subject a guy who doesn’t want anything more from her to that—and even if she’s starting to question that, now isn’t the time. So Betty gathers her breath, grabs his hand, and tells him she’s going to sneak him out.

She peeks her head out the door suspiciously before leading him silently down the stairs. “I’ll call you later, okay?” She whispers, when they’re at the front door. He nods mutely and she kisses him in a quick goodbye, but then he gestures at something over her shoulder.

 _Shoes,_ he mouths, and, shit, he’s not wearing them. Betty turns to gather the pair for him, but is greeted by none other than the approaching presence of Cheryl Blossom in her signature venomous red.

“Oh, don’t bother trying to smuggle him out, Bettykins. We already knew he was here,” Cheryl says, a hip jutting out and sifting through a bowl of cherry tomatoes, fresh from the fridge.

Jughead freezes, blinks, and meets Betty’s gaze, who feels just as confused as he looks. Cheryl sighs wearily and points at the large, scuffed, black, and _very_ out-of-place-looking pair of Jughead’s sneakers, lined up innocuously by the coat rack. “Unless Alice Cooper is vying for a transformation into the _other_ Alice Cooper, we guessed you had a special friend over.”

Cheryl rolls her eyes when neither says anything. “So _stick around,_ you pleb. Obviously. I’ve got some questions for you anyway. And Betty, you might want to check your sex hair before saying hello to your darling little niece and nephew.”

Grinning, she pops one of the cherry tomatoes into her mouth. Betty sees the moment where it squishes beneath her pearly teeth, and then she’s spinning around, her sharp red heels clacking away. Blushing madly, Betty quickly smoothes down her hair and whips the little elastic off her wrist in order to sweep it up into a messy bun.

“Tell me what to do, I guess,” Jughead says, meeting her eyes again. “Do you still want me to go?”

 _Not at all,_ she thinks. She thinks she might need him at her side to get through today, in fact. So Betty says _stay_ and relishes the fact that his shoulders seem to relax in relief.

She checks herself in the mirror by the front table, and can see how this tangle of blonde would scream _sex hair_ if it was down. She does her best to tuck in the stray curls into her bun, but quickly gives up. “Don’t worry, Debbie Harry. You look beautiful,” Jughead murmurs, pressing a kiss against her cheek.

Betty catches his eye in her reflection as it happens. They widen just slightly, as if almost realizing the casual intimacy of what he’s just done. But she liked it, though that feels like the understatement of the year. So she just twists around, cups his jaw, and returns the kiss onto his lips, if albeit more briefly than she’d like.

Then she rolls her eyes. “Okay, come on.”

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Polly, her long blonde hair pushed back by a blue headband, is already husking corn in the kitchen. She spots Jason heaving a bag of coals for the grill into the backyard, and the kids must be causing chaos somewhere out there too. Cheryl is slinking around behind Polly, draped up against a cabinet in a red blouse and matching shorts and looking far more like an ageless lounge singer than any aunt at a family barbecue.

She swirls the iced tea in her hands when she spots Betty and Jughead, so forcefully that her ice cubes clink loudly against one another. It’s clearly an announcement to Polly that they’ve entered the room.

“Betty!” Polly greets cheerfully, her lips pressed together in a smile that Betty recognizes as a futile attempt at not looking mischievously gleeful at the sight of Jughead. “Who’s this?”

It’s the exact kind of thing their mother would say, in the exact opposite way. Alice Cooper would straighten, demure, and tilt her head as she said it, thinly veiled as an accusation. (So, logically, Betty finds a new reason to be grateful she’s not here.)

“Um, Polly, Cheryl, this is Jughead, a friend of mine,” Betty says, one hand on Jughead’s arm. He shifts forward in order to shake her sister’s hand once she’s finished wiping it against her apron. Behind her, Cheryl’s eyes threaten to roll backwards into her head and stay there forever.

“I’m sorry, did you say his name is _Jug_ -head?” Cheryl intones, as if this a bad joke.

“Play nice, Cheryl,” Polly says warningly, before turning back to them. “It’s nice to meet you, Jughead.”

He surveys Cheryl skeptically, but at least seems to smile normally at her sister in response. Betty finds his closest hand and gives it a little encouraging squeeze, which makes him stand up a little straighter, as if perhaps realizing he’s actually meeting her family.

“By the way, Betty, you had left some dishes out, so I washed a few for you, and put the rest in the dishwasher,” Polly says, dropping her attention back down her work with the vegetables. She says it with an innocence that someone unfamiliar with her sister might not catch, but Betty knows her too well for that.

It’s a blatant teasing, because what she’s saying is, _you left a huge mess in the kitchen to go have sex and I bet you don’t want me to tell Mom._

Which would be an understatement, considering that exact scenario is probably their mother’s very worst Faustian nightmare.

“Thanks Pol!” she replies, in her equally perkiest, most innocent voice. It seems to ring Jughead in on the game, because he throws her a dubiously amused look. “Oh, gosh, I think I forgot to make the potato salad, too,” she adds, putting her hands on her hips. “I was just so busy last night. Praying.”

Jughead, who had been stealing a chip from a bag on the counter, immediately coughs and sputters around it. Polly ignores this, putting down an ear of corn and delicately folding her hands over it. “Mom will be so proud,” she says, with total conviction.

“Oh, good lord,” Cheryl mutters dryly from the back of the kitchen. “We get it, we get it. Little Miss Easter Hunt found the bunny. Hashtag-yas-queen, hashtag-Betty-glows-up. Let’s move on.”

“Glad to see you’re in one of your usual good moods today, Cheryl,” Betty says pointedly, crossing into the kitchen and opening the fridge. She sticks her head in and pokes around at what’s available. “I did forget to make potato salad, though. I think it’ll take too long to soften up the potatoes, so why don’t I switch it to pasta salad instead?”

“That sounds good,” Polly says, dropping her share of the act.

Betty pulls a few things she needs from the fridge and gets to work setting up her prep space. Jughead sidles up to her, his voice by her ear, “You’d warn me if I was about to be descended upon by the Holy Matriarchy, right?”

“She’s still out of town,” Betty assures him, laying a hand over his. “She’s been really obsessed with these small-town-journalist conventions lately. She’s away for a week about every other month now. Polly thinks she has a secret boyfriend.”

“Or girlfriend,” Cheryl pipes in sharply, clearly eavesdropping.

“Right, or girlfriend, but—”

“ _But_ even Gaddafi would have a hard time torturing information out of Alice Cooper, so we’ll probably never know,” Cheryl cuts in again to add. Jughead raises an eyebrow at Betty, and she confirms this with a look.

“Gotcha. So, clue me in on the joke from before. Is your mom religious, or something? I don’t see any crosses looming around.” He asks, bumping her with his hip so that she can make room for him to help her. She passes him a knife and a spare cutting board and directs him to the tomatoes, which all feels very familiar, almost as if they’re stuck in some kind of time loop.

“Only when appearance demands it, which is kind of the point,” Betty explains. “She’s just…well, she’s a little better now, but when we were kids, she was very strict. She wanted us to present the right kind of image.”

“Ah,” Jughead nods, taking a bite of the tomato cube he’d just cut. “Explains the pink wallpaper, then.”

She tilts her head at him. “Meaning?”

He shrugs. “It just kind of seems like an idea of you. Not something you’d actually pick out for yourself,” he says casually, not realizing that Betty has stilled next to him. She’s had that thought so many times throughout her life—but not once has she ever heard it reflected back at her.

She feels it again; that deep-set, heavy sense of speechlessness, weighing her throat down like a stone. It’s a moment that feels hard to describe, but if she were to give it her best shot, she’d say she feels _understood,_ in a way that is vulnerable and stripped down and more naked than she’s ever been around him, even considering what they did this morning.

She feels seen.

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When the moment passes, Betty tries to throw herself back into cooking, though it’s hard with Jughead at her side, helping her chop and salt. His presence is distracting, heat practically pouring off him, and she wishes they were alone so she could show him how much that one little sentence meant to her.

She bites her lip, shakes her head, and attempts to focus on pasta salad. _Pasta salad for your sister. Pasta salad for your very pure little niece and nephew, who very much don’t deserve to be exposed to the things you’d like to be doing._ Which is to say, shoving Jughead up against the kitchen counter and making him feel everything she is.

_Focus._

And eventually, she does. They move in tandem again, Betty passing him tomatoes as she washes them, him depositing the slices into the bowl she seems to shift to him just at the right time. It continues through shelling the peas and chopping the onions and it’s rhythmic, simple, and something they’re wordlessly on the same page about.

It’s not until Betty retrieves the dried bow-tie pasta and says, “Can you—” and Jughead nods, turning around to get a large pot, that they both seem to realize they have an audience. Polly and Cheryl gape at him, and he freezes, the pot in his hands, looking somehow like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

Cheryl breaks the silence. “You two are scary.”

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After the pasta salad is finished and the vegetables are prepped, they all head outside onto the backyard patio. Jughead has been snacking his whole way through the afternoon—and finally gets to the _worked up appetite_ joke she’d been waiting for—but just as he’s joined her at a chair with her requested lemonade and a plate of chips for himself, Cheryl materializes behind him, practically arriving in a cloud of black smoke. She pokes him forcefully in the shoulder.

“You. Get up,” she instructs. Jughead stares at her, and then at Betty for help, who feels the need to protect him from the warpath Cheryl appears to be on.

“Cheryl…”

“Don’t _Cheryl_ me, Elizabeth Cooper. I merely have a few clarifying questions for Beetlejuice over here, regarding his little friend.” She clasps her hands together with the kind of air that implies _resistance is futile,_ and Betty might agree.

She smiles at Jughead, but with the corners tipped down as if to say _you might have no choice here,_ so he begrudgingly puts down his snacks, brushes off his hands, and follows Cheryl into a corner out of earshot.

Betty gets up from her lawn chair and attempts to distract herself by adding a few garnishing touches to her pasta salad. She tries not to watch them as they talk, but even a quick glance gives her a pretty clear summary of the conversation. Jughead’s arms are crossed, wearing an expression that straddles the line between overwhelmed and pissed off, while one of Cheryl’s hands moves rapidly over her head.

So much for sparing him.

“So, that’s Veronica’s ex,” Jughead says ten minutes later, appearing at her side and glancing around quickly to make sure Cheryl’s not eavesdropping in a nearby shadow before adding, “I can see why they broke up. Kinda seems like an _immovable object vs. an unstoppable force_ type-situation.”

“Which one’s which?” She asks, smirking over at him.

“Loaded question. I’ll save that one for Nietzsche, when I meet him in hell,” Jughead sighs.

“We _have_ learned that Veronica really likes redheads, though,” Betty points out, making him snort.

“She did ask me if I wanted to give her some kind of lecture about not breaking Archie’s heart, but now I’m thinking I might have to warn him about someone breaking his kneecaps,” he muses. “She’s definitely not over Veronica.”

“She said that to you?” Betty asks, surprised. This would be…well, monumental of Cheryl to confide this in anyone, but especially to a stranger.

“No, that was the impression I got,” Jughead sighs. “I don’t even know how she knew I was Archie’s friend, but she just kept pressing me for details. She’s not very subtle, that one.”

“This sounds dramatic, but she does have eyes all over town. And she did this to the last one too, poor girl,” Betty says, frowning. “It’s been over a year, but I’m not really sure what the appropriate time is after a breakup in a relationship like that to be over someone. They were really intense together, but it _was_ mutual, in the end. But…I always got the impression that Cheryl thought they’d get back together eventually, which would keep anyone from moving on. Or she just might be a swan. I hope not.”

“What do you mean, she might be a swan?” He asks, glancing over at her. His lips curve upwards.

“Swans mate for life,” she explains. “When I was little, there was this pair of them who would always swim up Sweetwater and into the little canal downtown with the ducks. I fed them with my sister and grandmother every Saturday morning. One day, one of them was just…gone. It never came back, so something must’ve happened to it. I thought about that a lot for a while.”

Jughead is silent besides her, and she wonders if the conversation might’ve veered a little too closely to home. Eventually, he says, “What happened? To the other swan, I mean.”

She shrugs. “Not sure, really. My grandmother died that year, and we stopped going.”

“Huh.” He makes something like a grimace. “Sad.”

“Gee, don’t blow me over in one breath, Faulkner,” she teases, hoping it’ll break a bit of the tension. It works, because he releases a puff of air, rolls his eyes, and draws her against him, grinning goofily down at her.

“You’re _so_ hilarious,” he drawls, his arms looped at the small of her back. One of his hands is dipping dangerously low into her jeans pocket, which she catches and brings back up to place.

 _“Juggie,_ my sister is like, twenty feet away,” she admonishes, but thrilled all the same. He’s gotten bolder and bolder with touches as the minutes tick by and she won’t lie, she’s getting dangerously used to it.

“She already knows what happened upstairs,” he murmurs lowly, his eyes on her lips.

“Yeah, but her _children_ don’t,” which is all she needs to say for him to sigh and try to pull away. She hooks her own arms around his waist and drags him back. “I didn’t say you had to let go, just…maybe don’t grab my ass at a family barbecue.”

“Okay, well, there’s a learning curve. Pun more or less intended,” he says, which makes her smile in spite of how bad the joke is. He only makes his deliberately worst quips when he’s feeling comfortable.

She shifts, tucking herself into his side, with one of his hands at her hip. They indulge to stand like that for a little while, wrapped up in one another and not saying much, both watching Arthur and Rose running through a sprinkler, Jason making Polly laugh as she turns over a couple of hot dogs on the grill, and Cheryl lurking around in the background, as usual—but on the opposite side of the backyard, glaring darkly at a rosebush.

It makes Betty frown. The redhead always has been known to slink around behind the scenes by her lonesome, but among family, she’s typically been more engaged, at least with her brother or the kids.

“I think I should go talk to Cheryl,” she says, clicking her tongue. “She looks miserable.”

“I figured that was the way she always looked, prepared to strike for the Iron Throne,” Jughead muses, and then nods. “But she wasn’t too pleased when I wouldn’t offer up anything that pointed to Veronica secretly hating Archie this whole time, so maybe.”

“I’ll investigate. Go mingle while I’m gone,” Betty advises him, running one hand along his jaw. “Jason really likes murder mysteries, you can try talking to him about yours.”

Jughead makes a sound that borders dangerously on a whine, but she just raises her eyebrows and he ends up nodding and mumbling something that sounds like _I’ll give it a shot._

As they untangle and separate for their targets, Betty is struck with the thought that, for a guy self-described as not one for relationships, he seems to be making something of an actual effort to make a good impression on her and her family. If he were anyone else, she might’ve assumed it’s because he wants to keep getting laid for as long as he is here, but that just doesn’t seem like him.

She pauses, halfway to Cheryl, and looks back at him over her shoulder. Because, then again, how well can she really know him? It’s only been a couple weeks. But, still, the sex-that-wasn’t-quite-sex offered a lot left unsaid. She can’t let herself think that word aloud, describe what it was in such plain terms. But it felt like he was trying to tell her something, and she wished she had the courage to ask what it was.

Still—there was a secret there. The indecipherable stream of consciousness he dropped onto her skin like kisses, thoughts of beauty and thanks that were so mumbled together she hardly knew where one word began and another ended. The way he moved above her, in short, swift, sweet bursts.

The way he wanted to be sure she would come with him, in the end.

.

.

.

“Oh, it’s you,” says Cheryl when she notices Betty at her side. “What? Is the food ready, or something? Your little boy toy Snorlax finished consuming everything in sight and actually saved some for the rest of us? Great. Message received.” Betty blinks, and Cheryl’s eyes bulge warningly. “You can go now.”

Betty almost does. Almost throws her hands into the air and storms off, to join Jughead by the grill and forget she even tried. But she knows that Cheryl is her most dismissive when she’s in desperate need of company, so she decides to hold her ground. “You can’t…” She swallows around the words. “You can’t treat me like that, Cheryl. I’m your friend.”

“Are you?” Cheryl scorns, puncturing a watermelon sharply with her plastic fork. “You’ve always been Veronica’s friend most of all.”

“Well, yeah, she’s been my best friend since we were fifteen,” Betty says slowly. “But you’re family, and you know I don’t want to take sides.”

An acidic little scoff bubbles out of her. “Please. You’ve got the monochromatic eyesight of a dog, Betty Cooper. You always pick one side. This or that. Good or bad. Black or white.”

“That’s not fair.” She sighs, losing the will to argue. “I…okay, maybe I do, sometimes. But…losing my dad made me realize I needed to appreciate the time I had with my family. And that’s you, Cheryl, for better or for worse. You seemed like you were upset, so I came over to talk to you. But I’m not going to stick around for you to bite my head off at everything.”

She turns to go, and then hears, faintly, “Wait.”

Betty pivots back, and Cheryl is fidgeting, eyes on her fruit salad. “You’re right. I was upset. Trying to extract gossip out of your little sideshow boyfriend was like trying to pull his teeth out with a pair of drug-store tweezers, and it made me frustrated.”

 _He’s not my boyfriend_ sits heavily in the back of her throat, but Cheryl seems to be gathering her courage and it’s probably not the best time to correct her. “It’s just so hard, seeing her moving on,” she says finally, her voice very low. “I don’t know why I can’t.”

“Maybe…” Betty inhales. “Maybe it’s because you keep thinking Veronica wants to get back together.”

“Well, whose fault is that? When she told me she couldn’t handle things anymore, she… _implied_ that maybe one day, if I’d ever gotten help—”

“She told you she loved you and always would,” Betty summarizes simply, sighing. “That would be hard to hear in a breakup, I get it. It would make you hold onto things. But you _know_ what she meant—she just couldn’t keep going the way things were. And you agreed with her. You guys just had bad timing, and—”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Cheryl interrupts, narrowing her eyes. Betty shoots her a confused look. _“Timing,_ you brought that up last time. What does that have to do with my problems?”

“Well…” Betty pauses, unsure how to find the words. “I mean…you guys just didn’t get together at the right time of your lives. That’s why it didn’t work.”

“Oh, come on. What does that even mean? You’re not about to tell me you believe in fate, now are you? What about the tooth fairy, Betty? You believe in her too?” Cheryl suddenly inhales, as if catching herself. She shakes her head a little, to show she’s apologizing. “Timing is just another word for destiny, which doesn’t exist, and I _know_ a smart girl like you doesn’t believe in that. _Right?”_

“No,” Betty says slowly, after working through the words. “I don’t believe in destiny. I think we’re all looking for too much agency in our lives already to start questioning some sort of master plan at the same time. But...”

“Veronica and I didn’t break up because our moon charts were out of sync, Bettykins. We broke up because she couldn’t handle…you know. My moods.” What she doesn’t say is _bipolar disorder,_ but Cheryl’s never been quite good at speaking clinically. Betty opens her mouth to tell her that she shouldn’t be ashamed, and that—

“Don’t bother trying to make me feel better, we both know I’m right. She asked me to get help for years and I didn’t want to until I lost her because of it. It was for the best, in the end, because then I didn’t do it for her. I did it for me. And if you’re not getting help because you want it for yourself, you’ll never hold onto it. According to the therapist I’m paying ridiculous amounts of money for, anyway. So it’s possible she’s just saying that to keep me coming back.”

“But breaking up with her left you to deal with it alone,” Betty says softly. She’s always been more on Veronica’s side of things, being her best friend and seeing first hand how much things wore on her, but at the same time, she still felt bad for Cheryl to not have a rock through therapy.

“I wasn’t alone,” Cheryl says firmly. “I had Jay-Jay, and Polly, and even you, somehow. And I had myself, and we _both_ know I have enough personality for three people. And spoiler alert, I made it out just fine.”

She releases a long breath, glancing over at Jason, who is talking to Jughead. Based on Jason’s mimicking of a swinging baseball bat, Jughead is probably struggling through a conversation about sports wherein she’s sure he’s just regurgitating things he’s heard from Archie. It makes her feel all the more endeared to him, as he must be really trying.

Cheryl’s voice pulls her back. “You can’t put all your problems into one person, anyway. Especially not if you love them. That was the real fight, between Veronica and I. I put too much on her.”

“Yeah,” Betty agrees quietly, running that over in her thoughts. Cheryl’s right, of course.

“So it wasn’t _timing,_ it was a choice. You either decide to work on what’s wrong, or you go your separate ways. Find a way to make it work, or call it quits.”

They’re silent for a long time. Betty stares over at Jughead, and wonders if there’s a choice to be made here. She says she doesn’t believe in destiny, but she’s been sitting here, blaming bad timing and accepting that he’s going to get into his truck and roll away out of her life forever, without ever planning on telling him that’s not what she wants. Isn’t that passively putting things into the hands of fate—which, if it doesn’t even exist, is just giving up before the fact?

The thought sits heavily on her chest.

Finally, as if forcing herself away from that little spot of fear, Betty remembers her promise. “You know, if want to try to get back out there, that girl Toni Topaz won’t stop asking me about you. She really wants to know you, I think.”

“Her? Oh, I know. She once liked a couple Instagram posts from two years ago,” Cheryl sighs, biting off a grape from her fruit salad. “She’s cute, I suppose, if you like the whole dressed-down-Nicki-Minaj-pink look.” Cheryl shoots her a sidelong glance. “You really don’t think V and C are slated to reappear?”

“Well, it doesn’t help when you refer to yourself in the third person, but…no. I think she’s looking for something a lot less…combative right now. You guys butted heads a lot, even at your best. And she’s about to move across the country, right?”

Sighing, Cheryl nods. Straightens, shakes out her shoulders, and meets Betty’s eye. “Alright, fine. Give me Jem and the Hologram’s phone number and I’ll _maybe_ think about it. Maybe.”

.

.

.

A little while later, just after they’ve all settled down onto the patio picnic table for their lunch, Betty gets a text from Toni.

_omg, cheryl just texted me and said u gave her my number! we’re gonna get dinner next week. ty!!_

And then, a second later, embellished with two little smiling devil emojis: _now I don’t have to tell Kev I saw ur boy buying condoms AND flowers yesterday_

 ** _You’ve got a real soft spot for blackmail,_** Betty types back. **_You two are going to be a match made in heaven._**

 _lmao well ur one to talk!_ _he looked like he wanted to die, so he must really like u to suffer the embarrassment of buying both those things at once ;)_

Betty quickly shoves her phone into her pocket, her face flushed with warmth. Cheryl sits next to her, cutting up a hot dog into little bites, sans bun, and glances at Betty out of the corner of her eye.

She mouths _Toni?_ at her, and Cheryl returns a shamelessly smug roll of the eyes and looks away, leaving Betty to glance around the rest of the table. Polly and Jason are chatting about the upcoming camp schedule for the kids, Rose has her face pushed into a hand-held video game, and Arthur is shoveling a burger into his little mouth with aplomb. She feels full and happy and for the first time in a long while, strangely at peace.

She meets Jughead’s eyes over a spoonful of pasta salad. He wiggles his eyebrows at her, grinning. She returns the smile, feeling something rise into her chest.

His eyes are very blue with something indescribably soft. Toni’s words settle down deep in her toes.

_He must really like you._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: _from the morning_ by nick drake, _l'éte_ by étienne daho, and _try your wings_ by blossom dearie. and somehow, _angel from montgomery_ by bonnie raitt, don't ask me why. then again, i'm pretty sure none of these songs make sense together except to me.
> 
> lyrics at the top are from _suzanne_ by leonard cohen, which i know has already made an appearance here, but it's such a beautiful song, so who cares.
> 
> i had a real range of reactions to the last chapter, and i'm sorry to those who felt i put them through the wringer! jug is just a character with a lot of defense mechanisms, but those have to exist for a reason. and the growth i want to take him and betty through won't be worth anything if there isn't some anguish to make it feel earned. 
> 
> this chapter was a lot happier though, right?? another long one, which i actually cut down from the original length (for a couple reasons that'll appear on ahead) but still clocking in at over 8k. i blame cheryl blossom and how fun she is to write.
> 
> if you guys liked it, please please let me know!! the comments really mean SO much to me. i can't emphasize that enough. i've had a really shitty week so i'd really appreciate some thoughts more than ever. xx
> 
> and i'm definitely also gonna meet jug and nietzsche in hell because i made myself laugh with "jason really likes murder mysteries"


	13. Chapter 13

_You're walking meadows in my mind_  
_Making waves across my time_

.

.

.

He realizes he has always been fascinated by bubbles.

He thinks most people probably went through a phase as kids where they liked them, enjoyed them, but for him, it was much heavier an interest—because the concept of a near-endless supply of _anything_ was enough to appeal to the attention of the quiet little boy in threadbare sweaters.

In fact, one of his earliest memories is of just that thought. Sitting cross-legged in the itchy grass of the Andrews’ backyard, it was Archie’s birthday party, and even then, Jughead felt like an outsider and wondered why he’d been invited. Everyone else was playing on the Slip ‘N Slide and he was afraid of water, so he’d sat off to the side in his oversized t-shirt, next to the babysitter on whom he’d later have his first crush.

She’d nudged him in the side and procured a bottle of bubble soap. Dipping a pink bubble wand inside, she’d pulled it up to her lips, and then her mouth formed a perfect _o_ shape. He had inhaled, blinked, and then dozens of little circles of air and soap were blowing into the sun.

His mouth had too made an _o_ shape, but accompanied by the softest o _sound_ he’s probably ever made. He’d leaned back on his palms to tip his chin up to the sky and watch them float away in swaths. _Running away_ was a notion he’d already become familiar with, but that’s not the feeling he got from watching the bubbles drift away, even as they left him there in the grass, growing smaller and smaller in their line of sight.

He knew, even then, that they were just something borrowed and being returned. Later, he would learn the color in a bubble was simple light refraction, but right then and there, it quick wink of time and magic, as he saw himself rainbowed in their reflection and felt briefly beyond.

One floated his way, and he broke it.

As he got older, and his habits got older too, he and Archie would test the limits of bubbles. He remembers getting stoned in the Andrews’ garage in a way they’d thought was the peak of stealth, passing a joint to Archie in one hand and the makeshift, tinfoil bubble wand in the other.

Jughead would try to smother his giggles while Archie took a healthy puff of the joint, suck it in for a moment, and then blow the smoke into the wand. A bubble would appear at the other end, filled with a tiny gray storm cloud. It’d hover above them, and with an itch he could never quite scratch, Jughead would always reach forward and pop it with his finger, littering them in soap and weed vapor.

“Jug,” Archie would groan, “why do you keep doing that? I wanna see how long it’ll last!”

He never did figure out why he couldn’t resist that urge to pop the bubbles. Perhaps it was just a preview of the personality trait labeled _morbid curiosity_ that would come to define him. Or maybe it was the only slice of destruction he was allowed; the spoilsport in him, or the desire to end something before it ended by itself.

(By then, he’d already seen his share of ends, and this was the only lesson he’d learned.)

Later, older still, he’d learn a lot more about bubbles. About the science, the physics. It’d be a glow on his computer screen at three in the morning, hours deep into a black hole of Wikipedia articles, as he’d read about torpedoes and something called _the violent collapse of bubbles_ that propelled them into devastation.

It’d been a strange moment, to realize something as innocent and as ethereal as the little bubbles blown into a backyard at a child’s birthday party could be darkened, turned inward, and used as weapons.

He’d write about them as literary devices too, in the last college class he’d ever take. He’d watch the words _housing bubble_ fly across the eight o’clock news in his junior year of high school and wait for his father to find something new to blame.

And he thinks about them now, watching Betty Cooper helping her niece and nephew perfect their cartwheels in a backyard not at all unlike the place where his first memories live.

Because he’s written about them, romanticized them, intellectualized them, but he’s never actually felt like he’s lived _inside_ a bubble before. Even in retrospect, having a full family unit until age fourteen didn’t feel like one because it was far too destructive to ever be lost in.

This is different. It feels almost too simple to describe what he’s feeling as happiness, but that’s what it is: a bubble of happy. He’s traced the dictionary up and down for something more profound than such a commodified word, but every time he comes up short.

It’s just happiness.

The way he feels like he can reach forward and tuck Betty up into his side without questioning it, or the way she’s already snuck him no less than three kisses this afternoon and the little smile on her face when she’d quietly thanked him for socializing with her family.

The way they haven’t talked about a _damn thing_ regarding what’s between them, almost blindly, and clearly on purpose when he overhears her sister trying to bring it up. That’s the real mark of this kind of bubble, he supposes; the plausible deniability. But he’d laid her bare and she’d held him right back, and twice already, and he can barely stop thinking about when they’ll get to do it next.

Or, perhaps most of all, it’s the way when her nephew finds something in the back of the grass and he shows it to Betty, she leans down and whispers something in his ear while pointing at Jughead. And soon the little redheaded boy is scampering over to him, thrusting a tiny dandelion in his face and proudly exclaiming that he gets to make a wish.

He feels Betty’s eyes on him, and tries to remember how to talk to children. It’s been so long since his sister was this young, but she always is in his mind and it’s just like a bike. Jughead folds his arms playfully and tells him that he’d better think about it real hard first, better make sure he’s _really_ visualizing what it is that he wants.

Arthur scrunches up his face until he says he’s thought his hardest, and then blows on the dandelion until almost all the seeds are picked up in the wind.

Jughead makes a wish too.

It’s a bubble, and he knows—he just _knows_ —he’s going to pop it.

.

.

.

.

After second helpings (and thirds, for himself) and the kids start showing the telltale signs of exhaustion, everyone starts packing things up. Even the penny dreadful stock character named Cheryl helps out, clearing paper plates and deigning him with an actual smile when he takes them from her to throw away.

“What the hell did you say to her, you witch?” He mutters to Betty after it happens. They’re standing in the kitchen while the rest of her family is tidying up the backyard and he’s just grateful Cheryl’s gone, even if she was being nice to him, because it means he’s finally alone with Betty. “Pretty sure that’s a totally different person.”

She smirks and helps him scrape off food into the compost bin. “That’s between girls,” she says, clearly deliberately being vague.

“Again, otherwise known as witchcraft,” he murmurs against her ear, coming up behind her. There’s a terrible joke on the tip of his tongue about the spell she’s cast on him, but that’s a little too on the nose, even for him. Instead, he wraps his arms around her waist, because he’s going to take the first inch he can get, even if it’s in front of a garbage can.

She puts down the paper plate and twists in his arms. Her hands come around his neck, and he feels it again. Happy.

“You want to stay, after everyone leaves?” She asks, and god, every time she says that little word— _stay_ —he swears it adds a year on his life.

“Yes,” he tells her, his fingers scattering where they’re strewn across her hip. “I need to go back to the motel and get a change of clothes and probably shower, but I’ll come right back.”

“I have a shower here,” she says softly, and with that same kind of teasing innocence she’d used on her sister, winking through the veil of the Virgin Mary.

He groans. “I see what you’re doing, for the record, and it’s practically Draconian. But I want to try to work a little tonight, and I need my laptop for that. So let me go peacefully into the sweet night, and I’ll be back before you know it. Plus,” he adds, his voice dropping, “I only grabbed a few _things_ when I left.”

She seems to catch his meaning and that’s the trick, because she unravels herself from his grasp and returns to her cleanup duties. And then she looks up at him, with that now familiar and thrillingly pleased, secretive smile. “Juggie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just bring the box.”

.

.

.

They of course don’t go through a whole box of condoms, because neither of them is inhuman.

But—in their defense—they do make a decent stab at it.

That first night, he throws his things so rapidly into a bag that he barely registers what he’s bringing. It’s not until he gets back to Betty’s that he realizes he only brought the accidental _System of A Down_ shirt that he solely still owns for the spare day he exercises.

He gripes when he pulls it out of his bag, but Betty promises them he won’t need clothes anyway, and, well, she ends up being right.

She rises annoyingly early for work on Monday morning, tells him to sleep and stay as long as he wants, and _yes,_ she’s _sure,_ her mother definitely won’t be home for days. Then asks if he’ll stay over again tonight, and tells him where they hide the spare key when he assures her that he absolutely wants to, and kisses him goodbye.

(They keep a key under the little concrete fairy a few feet away from the front door. It’s completely conspicuous, but he supposes an All-American town like Riverdale has never heard of a burglar.)

He rises a few hours later, still smelling her on his pillow, and takes his time wandering around the Cooper house to catalogue Betty’s childhood. He wouldn’t call it _snooping_ , per se, but he might closely examine the books on her shelf—perhaps taking notes about what to recommend based on what she hasn’t got—or maybe admire her framed diploma from Columbia in the study, or he especially might possibly linger in front of her family photos and wonder what it would’ve been like to grow up with her.

Eventually, he decides to head back to his motel and grab an actually decent change of clothes, if nothing but to get some fresh air and hopefully some fresh perspective. However, if he thought leaving the first location of Norman Rockwell’s Home Improvement Show was going to help shake him from his euphoria of sex and post-sex, he was sorely mistaken.

Rather than stay in his motel and write while we waits for her to finish up work and summon him back, he decides to try something. It feels fluttering, even as an idea, but it’s something he’s always desperately wanted to experience, and he might not ever get the same chance again.

So he heads back to the Cooper house, retrieves the key from the little fairy, and lets himself back in. And then he sets up his computer on the dinner table, and works on his novel until he hears the lock turning.

He feels it then too, as she walks through the room, looking somehow more beautiful than when she left, and sees him sitting there; the little bubble of happiness expanding out of his chest and all across the kind of big house he’d never thought he’d sleep in.

“Honey, I’m home,” she says in a singsong voice as she drops her things onto the kitchen counter.

“Hello dear,” he plays back, “how was your day?”

It’s a game and they’re being wry and teasing, but it’s just what he was hoping for. It was why he came back when he did; he’s always wondered what it would feel like to be working from home and one day have a partner walk through the door and be happy to see him. He thinks it should be sad, that once again his greatest fantasy is nothing more than the simplest domesticity, but he’s so glad to see her that he doesn’t dwell on it.

“My day was good,” she says, in almost off-hand voice as she slides into his lap, one arm hooking around his shoulders and the other closing his laptop. And then she’s kissing him, and as is becoming habit with them, quickly grows to something more.

They have sex on the low kitchen counter that night, him standing between her legs and she’s her loudest yet, and he’s never once thought himself as insatiable in any way but regarding to food until now. After, having moved upstairs, he makes her come with his mouth and she returns the favor.

It’s almost too much to think about, how little they can keep their hands off one another. He’s fairly sure they’re both lost to the looming deadline and trying to get the most out of each other while they can through the guise of lust.

He’s becoming increasingly aware that he is not ready to leave her.

He wants to tell her he’s not sure he can go back to life before her, thinks he has to tell her, but that would break the bubble and he desperately doesn’t want to. He decides he’ll do it, but not until he has to go. 

Instead, they make quesadillas at midnight in nothing but their underwear while the radio plays a tribute to _The Best of the Seventies._

“Wow. Someone’s a major dork,” he tells her, grinning, watching her hips sway to along to some vague _boogie-oogie_ , the spatula held up to her mouth as if it were a microphone.

Truthfully, this is a side of her he very much likes. He suspects she was a _Taylor-Swift-Blasting-From-My-Bedroom_ type of teenage girl, and oddly enough, it’s not a turn-off for the person who stalked around high school with a pair of headphones and a _Bright Eyes_ album.  

“Shut up,” she laughs, flipping a quesadilla. “Be nice, or you won’t get any.”

He snorts. “Mm-hmm, sounds like an empty threat. Also, I was looking through a drawer for a napkin, saw the aprons, didn’t see any that said _Kiss the Chef_. What have you got to say for yourself, Cooper?” he asks, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her stomach.

She giggles, and he’s half-sure he’s hallucinating it all but he’s not willing to blink.

Tuesday follows a familiar pattern; he goes for a long, solitary walk through town and then later makes sure to position himself as working away for when she comes home. The thrill he gets when they greet each other and talk about their days continues not to disappoint.

That night, however, they actually decide to have dinner at a normal hour, rather than immediately jumping one another, and eat while they debate whether the concept of the Great-American-Novel has to be inherently metafiction in order to be successful. The conversation actually turns him on a bit.

Afterwards, they cuddle up for a movie wherein more time is spent bantering through it than actually watching. She throws popcorn at his face and he kisses her when the music swells.

The eye of the bubble grows bigger in his chest.

.

.

.

On Wednesday, she originally wakes at 5:30, which by now he knows is her usual alarm to get to the garage by 7, but he still growls when he hears the humming little harpsichord ring tone she uses. “No,” he murmurs into her neck, once she shuts it off and tries to get out of bed. “Sleep.”

“Juggie,” she whispers, half-warningly. “The garage.”

“Open late,” he grunts, eyes still closed. He pulls her closer against him, and thinks perhaps once describing this moment as reverence for the _peach of her skin_ wasn’t far off. “C’mon, girl boss. Sleep in for once.”

She sighs, like maybe she’s thinking about it. He opens one bleary eye to find her looking at him with exasperation, or maybe affection. But there’s something else there too, like a nervous, flittering thought. “You’re a bad influence,” she tells him, even as she settles back in against him, her forehead pressed into his chest, and exhaling gently. “Just one hour. That’s it.”

He drops a kiss at the top of her hair. “Yep, one hour.”

She doesn’t set another alarm.

.

.

.

Instead, they wake a couple hours later (a reasonable time for anyone to still consider morning, he thinks) because his phone has erupted in an uncharacteristic amount of text notifications. He makes a muffled sound, reaching over Betty to scrape around for his phone. And then he realizes that it’s not just his phone buzzing away, but hers as well. She seems to realize that at the same time and sits up, and together they check their messages.

“Veronica,” she sighs, at the same moment that he sees the litany of texts from an unknown number. Still, an invitation that feels more like a demand couldn’t have come from many people, and he probably would’ve guessed it was from Veronica anyway. He recognizes Archie’s number up at the top too and assumes that’s where the raven-haired princess got his contact information.

“Oh god, is it already after nine?” She mutters, looking at the clock on her phone. “I better text Joaquin and ask if he can work a few hours today. He’s usually got mornings free.”

While she does that, Jughead scrolls through the new messages, frowning. “She wants to throw a party tonight? It’s a Wednesday.”

Betty chuckles, clicking her phone off and rolling up against him. “You clearly don’t know Veronica very well yet,” she says lightly, smiling up at him. And then realizes that he’s still frowning. “What?”

“I probably won’t go,” he sighs, hating the way her face falls at this information.

“Oh,” she says softly, her eyebrows furrowing. “Is…is it because of your dad? You don’t want to be around alcohol?”

That would actually be a decent reason in comparison to the one he actually has, but it would also be a lie. He flops onto his back, pushing his hair back from his face. “No, no. I mean, being around drunken people isn’t my _favorite_ activity in the book, but it doesn’t really bother me in a ‘Nam-flashback kind of way.”

She shifts a little closer. “Then what’s wrong, Juggie?”

“There’s just a lot of people in this group text,” he says carefully, not wanting to outright admit that he’s got the social anxiety of a jackrabbit, especially not to the woman he’s still expecting to come to her senses at any moment.

“Not that many,” she replies, grinning a little now. “You should’ve seen the invite list from her last party.”

“I know I’m a writer, but I can still _count_ , Betts, and there a lot of numbers here,” he sighs. He scratches behind his ear, thinking about the lonely spot by the bonfire at Reggie’s party. “I’m not…great at parties, and especially not at ones where I only know three people. I don’t do well with small talk.”

“You know Kevin too,” she says, one of her hands rubbing distractedly at his stomach. She seems to have something of a preoccupation with that part of his body. “And Joaquin.”

He lets out another breath. “What about my favorite person, Persephone, queen of the underworld?”

“Cheryl?” Betty gives a half-hearted roll of the eyes. “She’s not in the text thread. And they’re definitely not there yet. So she won’t be lurking any more dark corners, waiting to bribe you for information.”

“She _should’ve_ tried a bribe last time, she might’ve gotten a little more out of me that way,” Jughead says, which makes Betty smile.

“Oh. You’d say you’re open to bribes, then?” She asks, her hand on his stomach wandering a bit lower.

He pretends to look offended, but makes no effort to readjust her hand. “My stars, Betty Cooper,” he tuts, putting on an attempt at a terrible Southern accent.

“I’m just wondering what I can do to make you want to come,” she says brightly. “To the _party,”_ she adds after a moment, because now he’s grinning. She whacks him in the shoulder. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“You go,” he tells her, shifting so that he’s leaning over her. He drops a kiss onto her jaw. “And you can _come_ here after.”

She actually blushes, but curves her arms around his neck and meets his eyes. “Please, Juggie?” She asks, and he knows that’s it. “I promise I’ll protect you from small talk. And Ronnie said she wants to celebrate you two coming into town; it’s practically in your honor.”

What she doesn’t say is, _it’s because you’re leaving this week,_ but they both hear it anyway.

“It is not,” he snorts. “It’s clearly in Archie’s honor, if anything. But…”

“But?” She repeats hopefully.

“Yeah, I’ll go,” he says, sighing heavily and smiling despite himself.

“Yay!” She squeals, pulling him closer so that she can kiss him fully and he thinks, distinctly not for the first time: _worth it._

.

.

.

They have a round of late morning sex—his favorite kind, he realizes, because he gets to see her fully in the rising light—and when she comes, it’s through a string of curses, which is new for her. He likes it.

Afterwards, she announces she has to get to the garage, even though she sounds begrudging and lingers the whole way through dressing. He considers asking her what’s bothering her, but he has an inkling.

The truck is supposed to be done this week.

So he can’t ask, because that definitely would pop the bubble, and watches her go. He dawdles in bed for a little while before showering and heads into the backyard to do some writing outside. The weather has turned humid again, and will be unendurable in the coming afternoon, so he wants to enjoy what he can.

Betty comes home earlier than usual, tenser and less willing to play the mid-century-couple game, and immediately trots upstairs for a long shower. Once she emerges, looking clean and refreshed and willfully cheerful, she parades outfits in front of him for tonight’s party. He’s apparently very unhelpful, because he thinks she looks beautiful in every one of them, but with some heavy prompting, he admits he likes her best in blue.

She pulls on a baby blue top and a short white jean skirt, while he dresses in the same outfit he’d worn for their date. It’d gone over well then, and his options are limited. Betty pulls her hair into her usual ponytail, but this time leaves several locks of blonde laying against her forehead, and they walk to Pop’s for dinner.

They sit on the same side of the booth and do their best to talk about nothing; she’s still got that fidgeting look in her eye, and he’s still not brave enough to ask if it’s what he thinks it is. After a while, Betty glances at her phone, sees a flurry of texts, and exclaims that they’re already late, so they pay and rush to Veronica’s apartment.

“Lonely Boy!” Veronica greets as she throws open the door, beaming at him. She’s wearing something he thinks might be a typical ensemble of a cropped black shirt with an equally dark skirt. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. Archie said it was a fifty-fifty shot.”

Betty grins up at him as Jughead shrugs and says, “Hope he bet against me, then.”

“Noted, for next time,” Veronica smirks, and then moves aside to beckon them into the apartment. “I’ve got IPA and lagers in the kitchen, and Betty—pour _toi,_ a bottle of your favorite rosé is on the counter.”

Raising a cautious eyebrow, Betty laughs. “I thought you said rosé was only suitable as a brunch wine, unless, and I quote, ‘one was at the Riviera.’”

Veronica waves a hand and makes a dismissive sound. It’s just exaggerated enough for Jughead to realize she might be quite tipsy. “Yes, and that’s still all true, but I know _you_ love it. And I already bought it, so! It obviously must be drunk!”

“You’re in a good mood tonight,” Betty observes as they follow her into the kitchen, and Jughead realizes this is true. Granted, he doesn’t have much of a barometer for Veronica at this stage, but the only emotions of hers he’s been exposed to are coquettish, coy, surveying, wary, and coy again.

“I am,” Veronica sighs happily. “I am.”

When she doesn’t say anything else, Betty snorts. “Are you going to tell me why? You quit your job, or something?”

Dropping a none-too-subtle look over at Jughead, Veronica just says, “I wish. No, no, I’ll tell you later, B,” and then flounces out of her kitchen with an announcement that she’s off to be a perfect hostess and that she expects to see them mingling _soon_. Betty rolls her eyes after her, but fondly all the same, as she digs around in a drawer for a corkscrew.

She pauses just as she’s uncorked the bottle in the same way Archie hesitates before grabbing a beer in front of him. “It’s okay,” he tells her, passing her the large wine glass Veronica had also left out for her and then cracking open a lager for himself. “Really. I promise, the trauma is a lot less obvious than that.”

“But you’ll tell me if anything makes you uncomfortable, right?” She asks softly, clearly dodging his attempt at a joke, her hand on its increasingly most common spot along his jaw. He nods, the bubble moving all the way up to his throat.

She fills her glass with the pink wine and then hooks her arm through his to lead him out of the kitchen. There’s a brief moment where he thinks she might’ve been about to hold his hand, but he’s not sure.

Veronica’s apartment is spacious, but he’s starting to wonder if most of Riverdale is this way. It has an open floor plan, with a relatively small but gleaming kitchen tucked away in the corner, and a couple of doors that must lead to bathrooms, closets, portals to the dimensional reality where he usually lives, and bedrooms, in some order or another.

Whereas Betty’s room had spoken volumes about the push and pull between the person put on display versus the person she truly was, Veronica’s sense of décor fully fits her personality: purple orchids, white vases, but just enough indoor palms and plush dark velvet to evoke a kind of smoky art deco lounge filled with literati and their muses of the century.

Faint music drifts absently through the apartment, and there are probably about twenty some-odd people in milling about across the furniture or leaning up against walls, including Joaquin and Kevin, the latter of whom immediately fixes a wide but rapidly narrowing eye on them. “Hey Kev, hey Joaquin,” Betty says, fidgeting slightly as a furtive smile digs at Kevin’s lips.

His eyes flick over to Jughead, down to the place where Betty’s arm is tucked through his, and back to her. “Hey,” Kevin replies, somehow managing to say quite a lot with that one word. No one says anything else.

“Okay guys, good talk,” Jughead drawls, if only to cut the tension. Joaquin snorts, and it seems to break the silent conversation-slash-staring contest between Kevin and Betty.

She turns to Joaquin. “Thanks again for covering me this morning, by the way.”

He shrugs as if to say _no big deal,_ but Kevin’s head swivels towards him. “You worked in the garage this morning?”

“I overslept,” Betty explains, sighing when Kevin immediately appears to read between the lines.

“Hm, betcha did,” Kevin demurs, taking a long sip from his beer. Betty flushes—it’s true that technically she overslept, but Kevin’s meaning isn’t lost on either of them and to deny that they didn’t afterwards have sex would be a lie.

“We’re going now,” Betty says, falsely bright as her fingers curl around Jughead’s arm. She introduces him to people around the room as they pass through it; most of the people here are friends from work or people from high school, and she says she only really knows a few of them. She doesn’t like Veronica’s coworkers very much and cleanly avoids them, but they have a decent chat with a guy named Dilton who happens to be in town visiting his parents and apparently recently sold his first tech company for a sum he seems itching to announce.

As promised, Betty protects him from small talk. She’s a completely natural charmer, skilled in a way that he could spend decades honing but still never match. She deflects and switches gears like the driver of a car she herself built. Once again, he’s in total awe of her.

Eventually, they find themselves with Archie and Veronica again, and he feels like he can breathe a little easier. Soon after, Veronica and Betty disappear to refill their wine glasses, leaving him with just Archie—which would be fine, except Archie is being evasive and seems uncharacteristically nervous about something.

Jughead opens his mouth to ask him what’s crawled up his ass, but Archie has other ideas. “Dude, wait, you know what I got?” Archie scampers off to a set of hooks and digs around in his coat pocket, one of those bombers that is made to resemble a letterman’s jacket. He retrieves a little Ziploc bag and dangles it in Jughead’s face. “Look what I snagged from Reggie before we left.”

“You stole his weed?” Jughead laughs. “Do you have a death wish?”

Archie scoffs. “Whatever. He’ll never notice, he has so much of it. So, wanna smoke?”

Given that he’s almost done with his allotted beer, he might as well. “Yeah, gimme. I’ll roll it.” He sinks onto a couch and clears a space while Archie disappears back to his jacket and quickly returns with a grinder, some rolling papers, a lighter and leaves him to it, saying he’ll be back in a few. It feels almost like high school again—left to roll a joint in the back of a foggy party he’s never quite sure he agreed to attend. Only this time, he definitely knows why he’s here.

As if hearing her name in his thoughts, Betty plops down beside him, placing her wine on the table as her chin nestles into his shoulder. “Jughead Jones,” she says slowly, and slightly impishly. “You getting high?”

He finishes grinding up the weed and turns to look at her. “ _Please_ tell me you were a D.A.R.E. pledge,” he says, which earns him a whack on the arm and a smirk. Depositing the bits of pot into the valley of the paper, he runs his tongue along the edge to seal the joint and then pauses, realizes Betty is staring at it, her pupils blackened.

Jughead finishes his work and tucks it behind his ear as she watches him, biting down hard on her lip. His hand trails up her knee and onto her thigh in order to shift closer. “Got something to share with the class, Officer Cooper?”

She’s looking at him in the way that usually precursors the moment that she pounces on him, but instead she seems to straighten her shoulders with resolve to do the opposite. Disappointment surges through him, but he understands why she might not want to start something she can’t finish in a room full of people.

Betty reaches forward, plucks the joint from behind his ear, and nestles it between her lips. “Got a lighter?”

He quickly grabs it from the table and holds it up for her, flicking on the flame. She drapes herself into the pillows of the couch and takes a puff. He likes this look for her—not necessarily just the joint between her teeth, but the relaxed lean in her posture, the half-lidded and comfortable glow in her eyes as she blows a bit of smoke out of the corner of her mouth.

He has already learned she’s not a person easily unwound, so to see her draped into a couch and smiling lazily at him is enough to fill him with warmth.

She passes him the joint, and he falls back into the couch alongside her as he takes a light hit. “Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” she hums back. The once-familiar hazy din of the pot is already settling above his thoughts and he wants to kiss her so badly, but he’s not sure what she’s comfortable with in front of her friends. He gets his answer quickly though, because she soon closes the space between them. It’s a short kiss; something sweet, and more like a promise, but there all the same.

Hand-in-hand, Archie and Veronica arrive back at the couch just as they’re pulling apart and he tries his best to ignore the smug, satisfied look on Veronica’s face. “Yo, pass that,” Archie says, and Jughead complies. He takes too big a hit and coughs as he releases his smoke, trying to pass it on to Veronica, who declines.

“Not my thing,” she says, one hand held up and the other grasping a nearly empty wine glass. She seems a bit surprised when the joint is then offered to Betty, but more surprised still when she actually takes it. “Uh oh,” she says, amused. “You’re going to regret that.”

“No I won’t,” Betty insists, her eye rolls already becoming more exaggerated.

“I wasn’t talking to you, sweetie,” Veronica replies, glancing at Jughead. “Fair warning, Stoned Betty is a very Emotional Betty.”

“Okay, I don’t get _emotional,”_ Betty scoffs, but it definitely sounds defensive.

Still addressing Jughead, Veronica says, “Last time she smoked pot, she lied on my floor, made me put on Fleetwood Mac while she silently stared at literally nothing, and then immediately spent half an hour crying at the memory of the time she accidentally stepped on a snail, or something.”

“You’re exaggerating.” She pauses. “It wasn’t a _snail,”_ she tells her friend, but drops her head closer to Jughead, her eyes slightly glazed over. “But, I mean, thunder only happens when it’s raining! Isn’t that so beautiful, Juggie?”

She is absolutely already stoned, and he tells her as much, raising his eyebrows. She shushes him and shuffles closer so that she’s fully curled up besides him on the couch. He smirks, draping an arm around her shoulders while he takes another hit of the joint.

One of the things he’s always liked about weed is the body high; the tingling awareness of every inch of skin and the blood moving beneath it; the organs in his chest inhaling and exhaling to the beat of his nerves. With Betty next to him, it’s like that feeling magnified ten fold.

He can feel his heart plucking louder than ever, but the album has flipped. It’s a song he’s never heard.

.

.

.

After they’ve passed the joint around to its last nib, Veronica says they _have_ to get off the couch before they’re all forever fused to it, and insists they dance. Jughead laughs and says _no way,_ but Betty is tugging on his arm and pulling him from the couch, all the while he tells her it’s not going to happen several times. Veronica twirls by her lonesome at what is clearly her favorite spot at the center of the room, and Jughead notes that she’s well past tipsy at this point.

“Oh, shit—hold on, I know what I’m going to play,” Archie says, and then scampers off. The music cuts for the briefest moment before being replaced by the one song Archie must know is sure to annoy him the most. The opening chords to _Don’t Stop Believin’_ filter through the room, and he groans loudly as Archie approaches them, his head bobbing.

“Boo,” Jughead drawls over the guitar intros, making Betty laugh. “How many bad pubs in Southie do you have to hear this song in before you’ll get sick of it?”

But Archie’s barely listening through his set of air drums. “You can take the boy out of Boston, but you can’t take the pub out of me!” And Jughead doesn’t have a moment to call out how little sense that makes before Archie breaks out into the first lines along with the song, _“Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world!”_

“Please, I will pay you to stop,” Jughead moans, but Archie is drunk, stoned, and deliberately lost in the song and just waves his pointer fingers in Jughead’s face as he sings, _“She took the midnight train, going an-y-whe-e-ere!”_

Suddenly, Veronica has thrown her arms around Archie and has joined him in belting out, _“Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit! He took the midnight train going any-whe-e-e-re!”_

“You two are a match made in hell,” he mutters, as Veronica drunkenly announces that she just _loves_ to sing. A few people have moved into the circle, joining along with the lyrics, and he spots more getting up, even Dilton.

That’s the problem with this song, and really, why he hates it—other than the fact that Archie always puts it on whenever they’re near a jukebox—it’s the hypnotic spell it casts on every person in the vicinity wherein they’re physically incapable of not singing along like complete idiots.

While the first guitar solo takes over, he glances over at Betty by his side, biting her lip through a mischievous grin, and he realizes what’s coming next. “Not you too,” he sighs, but she’s already joined the crowd in their rendition of, _“A singer in a smoky room, the smell of wine and cheap perfume!”_

As the lyrics announce that _for a smile they can share the night,_ Kevin appears out of nowhere and grabs Betty by the waist, dancing her out of Jughead’s grasp, while the beats of the instruments rise and Veronica and Archie start bouncing and singing the first chorus up at the ceiling.  _“Strangers! Waiting! Up and down the boule-e-e-vard!”_  

Figures move between them like shadows on the wall, and as if in slow motion, the haze of pot and the faint buzz of beer in his eyes, he watches Betty throw her head back in laughter as Kevin dips her. He whispers something in her ear and she giggles even harder. The guitar swells and she looks so beautiful under the dim yellow light.

He has a thought that he cannot admit.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, striding through the swaying crowd to reach her just as the song buoyantly declares that they’re _living just to find emotion_ and _hiding somewhere in the night_.

Kevin releases Betty in order to drag his boyfriend into the throng, and Jughead happily takes his place, one hand at her waist, the other grasping her hand. It’s possibly the magnetic build of the music, or maybe it’s just the room full of people spinning in circles and releasing the words into the air as their beers slosh around madly, or maybe it’s the pot, or the delight in Betty’s eyes when he touches her, but he finds himself joining in. 

 _“Working hard to get my fill, everybody wants a thrill!”_  

Archie whoops and hollers in loud approval when he hears Jughead’s voice in the fray and Veronica’s arms are waving in the air above her, and Betty is dancing with him, their fingers laced, and he loses his voice to the song. “You know the words, after all!” Betty laughs, as he rolls his eyes. 

“Every single person in the country knows the words to this song, Betts,” he says, trying to sigh and appear appropriately brooding, but then the lyrics surge again and the attempt is lost. 

 _“Some will win, some will lose! Some were born to sing the blues!”_  They all collectively belt it out at the top of their lungs, practically screaming this goofy, cheesy, terrible, bonding-with-strangers type of music that he _definitely hates,_ except as he twirls Betty in his arms, he thinks he understands the appeal a bit more.

Another guitar solo runs through them and the room is alive with energy. He feels at once so one with the crowd—an unfamiliar feeling, to say the least—and equally alone with just Betty as she moves against him in an entirely new way; with utter, bubbling joy, her ponytail bouncing with her. The song urges everyone to _don’t stop believing_ and to _hold onto that feeling_ and that _the movie never ends_ because _it goes on and on, and on, and on—_

And he agrees, especially as the moment pulls back and becomes fisheyed, just like the reflection in a bubble twenty years ago.

He spins her again, and the moment goes on and on, and on, and on.

.

.

.

The playlist is clearly Archie’s, because the music that follows next is a procession of the Doobie Brothers, Steely Dan, and otherwise vague, crowd-pleasing bar music—including one that leads to a terrible rendition of the song _Come On Eileen._ And despite having exercised his limit of what might be considered dancing, he has to admit he’s having a good time, even as the pot wears off.

Eventually, and with considerable effort on her behalf given her height, Veronica slings her arms over both Archie and Jughead’s shoulders and informs them that they’re low on beer and would they _please_ go get more and that there’s a liquor store _just_ around the corner and _please_ again.

Betty throws him a worried look, clearly not sure what his limits are, but he just kisses her on the cheek and assures her it’s really fine, following Archie out the door.

“Sorry I’ve been self-imposed as _persona non grata_ lately,” Jughead says, as they meet the late spring night air. “I’ve just been…busy. Writing.”

“Uh huh,” Archie muses. “Is that what you’re gonna call it?”

“Shut up,” he says, shoving Archie in the shoulder just hard enough that he stumbles a bit. “I mean, yeah though. I’ve been with Betty.”

Archie waggles his eyebrows. “So I heard from Veronica, who heard from Betty. Sounds like it’s going well, dude.”

 _It is,_ he thinks. He looks up at the dark sky and nearly imagines something translucent wiggling overhead, a bubble blown too big. They reach the liquor store, and he is almost thankful for the harsh white light of the fluorescent bulbs, because it feels like a dousing relief from the fog and warmth leftover from the party. He hangs back while Archie selects a few six packs and pays and then they’re on their way back to the apartment.

“Anyway, it’s not like I haven’t been hanging out with Veronica a lot too,” Archie says, grunting as he redistributes the weight of the beers in his arms. Jughead offers to take some, but Archie says he hasn’t been working out lately and that it’ll be good for him. “So it’s okay, dude.”

“Yeah, I just figure we get to see each other all the time, so I didn’t think it was really a big deal,” Jughead sighs. “And we’ll have the drive to Chicago, and back in Boston, and so on.”

Archie doesn’t say anything, and at first Jughead thinks it’s because he’s still trying to figure out the best way to carry all the beers. But then he realizes that Archie has put them down entirely, even though they’re still a block away from Veronica’s.

“Uh, about that,” he says slowly, scratching at his temple. “I have something I gotta tell you.”

“Gee, that’s not ominous at all,” Jughead tries to chuckle, but Archie’s face is rarely serious and it makes him hesitate.

“It’s good news,” Archie says quickly. “It’s… Okay, so I think I’m not going to go to Chicago. I can see my mom another time, and I wanna spend a bit more time with Ronnie here.”

Jughead sighs, because honestly he’s been expecting something like this for a while. Archie is already self-described as head over heels for Veronica and it’s definitely not unlike his best friend to throw away time with him in favor of a girl. And besides, he’d probably be extending his own trip if there weren’t such a specific reason for why he himself has to leave, so he can’t judge. Not really sure why he’d label that _good news,_ but it is Archie, after all.

“Alright,” he says. “We wouldn’t really have had much time to do anything except drive, since we’ve been here so long. I get it. It’s cool.”

He turns to go, thinking that’s the end of it, but Archie is still rooted to the spot. “There’s something else too,” he says tentatively. “So…uh, I’m gonna move to LA.”

Jughead blinks, sure he’s heard him wrong. “You’re—you’re going to _what?”_

“I’m going to move to LA,” Archie repeats, much firmer now.

He stares at him, and then starts to laugh, even as his stomach sinks low. “What the fuck, Arch, no you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” he insists, his voice growing stronger. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and…it just finally seems like the right moment.”

“You’ve been thinking about it for a while?” Jughead repeats, scoffing derisively. “Yeah, okay, _sure._ Then why haven’t I ever heard you mention it before?”

“Because—” Archie hesitates, but seems emboldened by the mocking scowl on Jughead’s face. “Because I know I’m, like, your only friend, and I didn’t know how you’d take it.”

“You’re not my only friend,” Jughead spits, even though it’s probably true. Really though, who else does he ever hang out with? He ended things with Ethel amicably enough, and he sees her sometimes, but probably not enough to consider her a friend. Does he even count Reggie, especially if their friendship requires Archie’s presence to bring them together?

“Look, I’ve been telling you for a while that I’m, like, at a wall with work. I can’t keep doing these stupid local commercials forever, it’s really bumming me out. My industry is mostly in LA, and if I’m there, I can try to do songs for TV or movies, or something,” he says in a placating voice, and Jughead hates that Archie actually has a valid point. But then he adds, “And…you know, with Veronica moving there, it just seems like the right time.”

Jughead releases a choked laugh and throws a hand into the air. “There we go. You know, you almost had me there, trying to justify this as a career move. Jesus, this is ridiculous, even for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Archie says, his voice rising.

“I’ve been watching you pull shit like this my whole life, Arch. ‘Sorry Jughead, I can’t go to the Yankees game your dad saved up for because Pepper just really needs to see me,’ or, ‘Actually, Jug, I think I’m going to apply to Berklee School of Music because Valerie said she was.’ Take your fucking pick. You make these impulsive life decisions because of some girl you barely know, and then you’re completely confused at what went wrong when it blows up in your face!”

“I—okay, I _applied_ to Berklee because of Val, but I _went_ there because I love music, okay?” Archie is yelling now. “And fuck off, because none of that’s the same, because I _love_ Veronica!”

Jughead slaps his hand hard across his forehead. “Jesus Christ—you _can’t_ love her, you don’t even know her!” He yells, but as he hears the words come out, they sound oddly like a lie.

“Oh, yeah? What the hell do you know about it, Jug?” Archie snaps, his arms crossed. “You’ve never even been in love! Because you’re too much of a coward to ever try!”

“I’m not a coward,” he hisses, even as he feels as though he’s been sucker punched. A car drives by, the headlights passing over them as Jughead’s chest begins to stutter. He’s not a _coward_ , he’s got _issues_. There’s a difference. Right?

“Yes, you fucking are,” Archie seethes. “Or it wouldn’t have taken you a million years to make a move on Betty when you were so clearly into her from the start. I mean, dude, have you even told her that you like her yet?”

“I—” Jughead feels all the words and breath leave his lungs all at once. “She knows I like her.”

“Have you actually _told_ her that, though?” Archie scoffs. “Because Veronica said that Betty was really confused about what you wanted.”

He inhales sharply, indignation surging. “What the hell, do you guys talk about us? It’s none of your fucking business what—”

“Veronica was just asking because she wanted to look out for Betty, because she’s a good friend and a kind, protective person,” Archie interrupts, scowling madly. “And the woman I love.”

“You’ve known her for three weeks!” Jughead yells, almost delirious with exasperation. “You _cannot_ love her! It doesn’t work like that!”

“Tell me how it works, then,” he snarls. “Go ahead. Enlighten your much stupider friend with _a-a-all_ you know about love.”

His mouth opens and closes once, his heart stammering loudly. “It…takes work, and a lot of time—you—you compromise and grow, you don’t just—”

“That’s just a relationship,” Archie interrupts, smug with dark satisfaction for the moment wherein he understands something that Jughead doesn’t. “Love is the _feeling_ when you look at someone, or how you feel when they walk in a room. It’s the way I know I’m not ready to say goodbye to her. You’d know that, if you ever even tried.”

He realizes Archie is right, and it sends his blood boiling. That kind of love is the one thing he’s always craved, and all the while justified not looking for because it always felt so unattainably complicated, like a riddle with no end, and it _cannot_ be that obvious or that simple. It just can’t.

He wants to punch Archie.

“Fuck you,” he says instead, and because he can’t admit to anything else. Jughead turns on his heel and storms away, with no destination in mind as long as it’s far fucking away from Archie and his childish fantasies about love and life.

“Yeah, well, fuck you too!” Archie shouts at his back.

His feet carry him past Veronica’s apartment, past Pop’s, past the turn off for Betty’s street, and onwards into the night. He stomps up the stairs to his motel room and slams the door shut loudly behind him, his fist punching uselessly once at the wall when that doesn’t satisfy him. He curses loudly and slides down onto the floor.

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Later, he realizes he never actually popped the bubble.

In the end, Archie did.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: for terribly obvious reasons, _don't stop believin'_ by journey, even though i share jug's sentiments with begrudging enjoyment of this song. it was a challenge to get that scene right, and might work best while listening to the song, because it more or less technically actually lines up in pacing, but hopefully it works without it too.
> 
> anyway. also, _what a fool believes_ by the doobie brothers, and obv _dreams_ by fleetwood mac. lyrics at the top are from _strange magic_ by electric light orchestra. 
> 
> so this was a big chapter for jug (i keep saying that, but, they are) (also, over 8k again!) and definitely the game changer. 
> 
> i continue to be blown away by the response to this fic. you guys are so loving, and so kind to me, and your words mean so, so much. this fic has become a really intense story about accepting adulthood and change and learning how to love through that; topics that are personal to me and, really, so is this story. 
> 
> i really value all the comments, and in my last round of comment replies, i feel like i barely did that appreciation justice because i've had a whirlwind week. but i hope you guys know how much they mean to me. 
> 
> and if you liked this chapter, please let me know in a review!!
> 
> thanks again to my beta Saralisa/SRLoftis!


	14. Chapter 14

_All my life I thought I’d change_

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Betty is just wondering how long it can take two guys to choose between beers at a minimarket that hasn’t updated its stock since 1987 when she hears Veronica’s door swing open loudly. She jumps, turning to see Archie entering with the weight of a few six packs in his arms and forcefully kicking the door shut behind him. She scans around for Jughead, but he’s nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, Archie stalks through the apartment, looking furious.

Veronica meets her eye across the room, and they both scurry towards the kitchen, where Archie is glaring at the beers he has unceremoniously deposited onto the floor. “Archiekins,” Veronica says, gasping when she sees the look on his face up close. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Jughead?” Betty asks quickly, without giving Archie a moment to answer Veronica’s question.

His eyes flick from Veronica over to her. “He left,” he mutters, turning away to unload the six packs from their cardboard boxes.

Her heart slams forcefully against her ribcage. He wouldn’t have actually—no, she still has his truck. She has his _keys_. He hasn’t paid her yet. He can’t _leave_ -leave. _And he wouldn’t, not without saying goodbye,_ she tells herself, even if there’s a small part that reminds her that wasn’t the deal.

Nevertheless, she still asks, “What do you mean, he left?”

Archie sighs, and with it, his shoulders relax slightly, as if quite literally trying to blow out some steam. “We got in a stupid fight and he stormed off,” he explains dolefully, scrubbing at his cheek.

Veronica gasps loudly again, and this time with Hepburn-like fervor. She shoots her a warning look, but realizes Ronnie is still drunk and it’s useless to scold her. “A fight?” Betty echoes instead.

This is a surprise, even if she herself has observed them veering dangerously close to it once before, on the very first night they rolled into town. Still, they’ve known each other their whole lives, according to Jughead; she supposes that either means they fight often or not at all. She suspects it’s the latter, and thus the fight had probably been a long time coming. “What about?”

His expression turns mirthless, and he scoffs, glaring up at the ceiling. “Don’t ask me that,” he says finally, the fight seeming to leave his eyes now. “I’m not a good liar, and if I told you, he’d really never talk to me again.”

Betty opens her mouth to refute this, because all that’s done is make her more curious, but Veronica cuts in with a reproachful look, even as she sways in her Jimmy Choos. “Betty, if he said not to ask, don’t.”

Archie nods, eyes flipping from Veronica to Betty. “Yeah, you should probably just go talk to Jughead, to be honest.”

She glances over at Veronica, who is doing her very best to straighten under Betty’s surveying gaze and smiling broadly while supporting herself against the counter top. “I can’t leave you, you’re too drunk,” Betty sighs.

“I’ve got her,” Archie insists. “You go.”

“You’re drunk too,” she argues, hands on her hips.

“Trust me, the whole thing really sobered me up,” Archie replies, sighing noisily. Betty surveys him, but decides she doesn’t know him well enough to spot any telltale signs that might suggest otherwise, and caves.

“Fine, but you have to make sure she drinks at least three glasses of water and has four pieces of toast. Otherwise she’ll be really hungover and trust me, you don’t want to see that side of her yet.”

Archie releases a puff of air and smiles softly over at Veronica. “Haven’t hit my limit yet,” he says, with admiration in his eyes. Betty raises an eyebrow; she’s heard Veronica’s side of things, and they _do_ act as though it’s practically illegal to not be touching one another at all times, but she hasn’t quite seen this look on his face before. It almost feels too tender to be seen by an outsider, so she glances away.

“Alright,” she says, tightening her ponytail. “V, I had a lot of fun. Good party.”

It’s definitely the truth; it was the most fun she’s possibly ever had at one of Veronica’s parties, actually—although watching Jughead’s slow bow into defeat by the band Journey certainly had been the highlight.

Veronica throws her a dramatic air kiss, her arm sweeping out so wildly that she nearly whacks Archie in the face. “Mais bien sûr! Bonne nuit, mon amour!”

“I hate it when you get French-drunk,” Betty says, halfway between a sigh and a laugh, and gives her a goodbye hug. She awkwardly gives one to Archie as well, and then she’s gathering her keys and pulling on her jacket and slipping away.

The night air is refreshing against the leftover heat from the party that’s still warming her skin. Cicadas hum loudly in greeting as Betty sinks down onto the outside front steps leading up to the apartment, pulling out her phone and finding Jughead’s contact.

It rings out, and then a dry, bored version of his voice filters through.

_“This is Jughead. You know what to do.”_

She sighs, one of her hands rubbing at her collarbone while she waits for the beep. “Hey Juggie, it’s me… Archie says you guys got in a fight, and he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t tell me much, just that you were upset, and…well, call me back. If you want to talk about it, or if I can help. Um. Okay, bye.”

Betty sits there for a long moment, tugging her jacket sleeves over her hands to keep them busy, and stares at her phone in her lap. A car alarm sounds vaguely in the distance, followed quickly by a baying dog. Cicadas are still buzzing noisily off somewhere into the night, making it a cumulative song of ambient chaos and white noise.

The clouds shift across the moon as a light breeze moves the hair around her face.

After the alarm finally stops and the dog falls silent and her phone still refuses to give an inch, she forces herself from the place on the front steps. He probably went to his motel, and she considers trying him there, but she doesn’t know what room he’s in and although she could easily ask Archie, she’s not sure it’s her place.

Then again, his computer and a fair amount of his clothes are still in her bedroom, so on the off chance he went back to her house, she decides to head there. She stops at the diner on her way home, but he isn’t there, and Pop himself confirms he hasn’t been in since earlier with her.

No lights are on as she comes up the steps, which doesn’t bode well for her hopes that he’ll be sitting in his usual spot at the table. As she walks through the front door, she’s immediately struck by the cold breeze let into the house by an open window; she quickly crosses the living room to close it, set with an almost anxious pace. She calls Jughead’s name once, and hears nothing.

Everything is quiet.

She stands there, in the center of the room, and stares at the kitchen table where they’d played a dangerous game of house.

Or maybe it was a hand of solitaire all along; she’d gotten painfully used to him sitting there, working on his novel when she got home, and she’d thought he was doing it on purpose—for why else would he not be working at his motel?—but now she sees it’s possible she was just projecting. Likely, even.

The chair still pushed out from when he last used it.

 _He’s not dead, Betty, pull yourself together,_ she thinks, as she turns and heads upstairs. Her bedroom is just the way they’ve left it, which relaxes her shivering heart a bit; their clothes, including his worn and clearly well loved jean jacket, are still where they fell, when thrown across the room in their haste to undress one another.

However, most of the relief comes from the laptop still on her desk—he definitely won’t leave town without it. Not that she thinks he’s just going to disappear into the night forever, especially when he doesn’t even have the keys to his truck, let alone the actual thing itself, but it’s comforting all the same.

She feels her phone buzzing in her pocket and she grabs for it with embarrassing speed. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Jughead says over the line. He sounds weary; exhausted, even, and her heart breaks for how far away he sounds. “Sorry, I was just watching something stupid on TV and wasn’t looking at my phone when you called.”

“It’s okay,” she says quietly, dropping onto her bed. It still smells like him. “Did…you get my message?”

He chuckles. “Yeah. You might be the only person in this generation still leaving voicemails, but I listened to it.” There’s a long pause. “Sorry that I took off. How was the rest of the party?”

“It’s fine,” she says, which makes him sigh. “And I don’t know; I left. I’m back home now.” _And it feels empty without you now,_ she thinks. “Are you okay? Archie wouldn’t tell me much.”

Again, a pause. “I’m okay, it wasn’t the end of the world. It’s not like he hit me, even though I think he wanted to. But… I’m just not sure there’s anything else to say,” he replies finally, and half with resignation.

“That’s fine,” she says again, not wanting to push him. She exhales. “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

“It was a fight that I think was a long time coming, in retrospect. That’s all. I’ll get over it,” he adds, in an odd voice. “Thanks for checking though.”

There’s another long moment wherein neither say anything, as if he’s waiting for her in the same way she’s waiting for him. She breaks first. “Would it help if… Do you want me to come to the motel? Or you can come over again, if you want. Your laptop is still here and everything. We could just watch a movie?”

“I think I’d rather be alone tonight,” he sighs, after another palpable silence. “Sorry.”

“Oh. Um, don’t apologize!” She says quickly, trying desperately to keep her voice neutral despite the shocking amount of hurt bleeding into her chest. “No, I totally understand. I would probably want to be by myself too, if I got in a fight with Ronnie. And, um, this is good. I could use some me time too.”

He sucks in a breath. “Betty—”

“No, really, it’s _fine_. I totally get it,” she assures him, or perhaps herself, even as she curls up into a ball on her bed. And then, perhaps out of spite for herself, the words she hates most are spilling out of her; “Oh, and…by the way…I finished the truck this afternoon. Last gear tightened, and all. So you should come by tomorrow, and we can wrap this up.”

She stares at the little clock on her bedside table and counts the seconds that he doesn’t say anything.

(Five.)

“Alright,” he says, voice even farther away now and almost garbled, as if he’s put her on speakerphone. “Yeah, I don’t really want to deal with Archie right now. So that’s probably good I get on the road sooner rather than later.”

“And you’ll have more time with your sister that way,” Betty points out, even as she hears her voice cracking a little.

“Betty…” She waits, but he doesn’t say anything else. Then, “Yeah.”

She squeezes her eyes shut and can’t help but make a fist, feeling the nails digging all the way into her chest. _What did you expect?_ A dark little voice whispers. _You knew this was coming. You’re not his girlfriend._

“I’ll bring your stuff to the garage tomorrow too, to make it easier for you. That way you won’t have to waste time coming here.”

“Sure,” he says, in a tight voice that once again almost contradicts him. Or is it all in her head? Her anxiety plays tricks on her constantly—half the time, she never knows when she’s projecting, when her stress is clouding her understanding. She’s heard it’s common in anxious people, but it doesn’t make it any less easier.

(That’s why she has always liked books; it’s hard to fool what’s on paper.)

“So…I’ll come by after lunch.”

“Perfect,” she hears herself say, for perhaps the first time in years, and practically whacking her in the face with how deeply the opposite this all feels. “Okay, I’ll let you go. Have a good night, Jughead.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay. You too,” he says, and then he’s gone.

She grips the phone tightly against her ear for a few seconds, and then presses it into the sheets. _That’s it then,_ she thinks. _That’s how this ends._

It’s funny; one of the first things she did when she moved back into this house was buy a new bed.

She felt determined and refreshed and she wanted to make a mark of that; she’d consistently shared a bed for over a year and by the end of her relationship with Trev, all she’d wanted was the space to stretch out across a mattress, to make snow angels in her sheets, to kick off the covers if she wanted, or sleep with a fortress of ten pillows if she so pleased.

She’d gotten rid of the old twin bed in this room and not looked back. But now, for the first time, she misses it, and with a vicious anguish. This bed is way too big. This bed smells like him everywhere. This bed is molded with the thoughts he’d whispered into her skin, branded with the movements they’d made.

This bed is just empty.

Betty curls herself up tighter, and lets the tears come.

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She rises that morning with only fuzzy memories of pulling herself together enough to wash her face and change into pajamas, but she’s grateful not to have slept in her bra. She dresses through the motions and finds a bag to put Jughead’s things in.

Betty stares at it, her eyebrows needling, wondering how such a nondescript and unassuming paper bag can be such a painful conclusion to the last week. But she supposes objects are only worth what people give them, so she does her very best to expel the thoughts and heads downstairs, pausing only to push in the chair Jughead last used.

Veronica has texted her a few times—once at two in the morning, still clearly drunk, and the rest later on and much more apologetically sober—but she doesn’t bother replying to any of them. She’ll just want information and Betty has none to give.

Once she reaches the garage, she places the paper bag of his things into the bed of his truck and tries not to glance over at it through her office window as she changes into her work jumpsuit, makes a pot of coffee, and prints up Jughead’s final bill.

It’s another slow, hot morning, with the increasingly ominous humidity of another storm. It sits heavily in the air and presses against her skin, making her feel hazy and sluggish.  _Fitting,_ she thinks grumpily, as she deliberately cuts the opposite way through the garage to reach the Volkswagen she’s now working on.

She intentionally doesn’t keep track of time as she settles in over the new engine, to the point where she decides to put on headphones in order to block any distractions out. She selects a particularly mournful Angel Olsen album, because apparently she’s sycophantic towards her own misery, and has it turned up so loud that she doesn’t hear Kevin calling her name until he literally waves a hand under her nose.

Betty jumps back, ripping out one headphone bud so that she hears Angel Olsen crooning that _this blessing was a curse in one ear,_ and Kevin apologizing in the other. She tugs out the remaining little white ear bud and blinks at him as he thrusts a white Pop’s bag into her hands.

“Trying to butter me up, huh?” Betty asks, pulling out a chocolate croissant. Jughead had guessed this was her favorite, but Kevin has long known her weaknesses.

He shrugs. “It’s not my fault butter is the favorite ingredient of the French,” he says, smirking. He deposits the book in his arms onto her worktable, and then taps a finger onto the cover of Jughead’s _A Prayer for Helter-Skelter._ “So this is for Boy Wonder to sign, don’t let him forget. Ugh, this is worth all eight nights of Hanukkah in one fell swoop. Dad’s gonna flip.”

She rolls her eyes through the squeezing in her chest. “Just wait until he reads the sequel. No spoilers, but your small-town-sheriff father is going to really like the next one.”

Kevin’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve read it already?”

“A bit of it,” she says, trying to ignore the enraptured look appearing in Kevin’s eye. “Not much, though. And don’t even bother, I’m not telling you anything else about it.”

“Give me some credit. I know better than to try to test _your_ moralistic loyalty,” Kevin scoffs. Then he grins. “So…come on. We both know the _other_ reason why I’m here, even while on my very own lunch break. I want the scoop, Coop.”

“On what?” She asks innocently, biting into the croissant. He just tilts his head at her, eyes narrowed, and she sighs. It’s not a secret, but she’s not eager to revisit what’s already history. “Okay, fine. Yes, we hooked up.”

“Yeah, that much is obvious.” He rolls his eyes. “I saw you two kissing on Veronica’s couch and it didn’t look like the first time. Not to mention the way you guys were hanging over one another all night. You should’ve seen yourselves, I felt like I was watching that one scene from _Ghost_. So, how long has this been going on?”

“Since last Friday, I guess,” she says, sighing. “He’s been staying over every night since Saturday. Except last night.”

“Wow,” Kevin breathes. “That’s kind of intense right out of the gate, yeah?”

Her eyes flick off. “Yeah. Intense is probably a fair word. But we didn’t have a lot of time together, so…we just made the most of it.”

“Apparently,” he muses vaguely. He watches her for a moment as she tries—and fails—to focus on the Volkswagen she’s supposed to be tuning.

“But it’s over,” Betty says, pushing off from the car and giving up on the carburetor at hand. She meets Kevin’s eye and doesn’t like the look there. “What?”

 _“’But it’s over,’”_ Kevin repeats in a sour, low impression of her voice. “Like, oh my god, your face when you said that. What’s wrong?”

A part of her really doesn’t want to talk about it. A part of her wants to bury it inside the trunk of a car and then push it into the river. A part of her—the part that is practiced and smiling and the perkiest of pinks—wants to assure Kevin _it’s fine_ and she’s onwards as always.

But then there’s that small voice whispering that _it’s not fine at all,_ and that’s the one she desperately wants to follow.

She sighs, trying to gather her thoughts. “It’s just…it was supposed to be casual. No expectations, you know?”

Kevin’s lower lip stretches out into a sympathetic grimace. “Uh oh. You tried a friends-with-benefits?”

“Don’t give me that look,” Betty says, frowning. “It’s not so impossible. Plenty of people do it.”

“Plenty of people aren’t you,” Kevin sighs. “I say that _lovingly_. But you and I both know about that little heart sitting there so brightly on your sleeve.” He unfolds his arms in order to make a gesture of a positive shrug. “But hey—so what? You like the guy after all. This is good, right?”

“No, it’s not,” she replies, nibbling her lip. “I don’t know, he was really distant last night and…I mean, I understand why. He doesn’t have much of a reason to stick around anymore, if he’s fighting with Archie and—”

Kevin cuts in. “He’s fighting with Archie? Since when?”

“When they went for a beer run. They got in some fight and Jughead went back to his motel. I still don’t really know what it was about.”

“Oh,” he says, eyebrows raised again. “I didn’t see you when Archie got back, so I just assumed you two went off to go reenact everyone’s favorite scene from _Titanic_.” He whacks his hand against the passenger window of the Volkswagen for full effect.

He’s deliberately trying to lighten her mood, which she appreciates, but it’s just not working, because now she’s thinking about the fact that they’ll never actually have sex in a car, something that’s always been a backburner fantasy of hers.

She shakes her head, hoping it’ll help push out the thought. “No. I called him and asked if he wanted to come over or vice versa, and he said he just wanted to be alone.”

Kevin leans up against the car, arms folding. “Well, that probably doesn’t mean anything except that he wanted to be alone. Joaquin and I have been living together for two years, and he still goes and stays at his mom’s sometimes when he wants some quiet time and to recharge. This is life dating an introvert. It’s normal; you’ll get used to it with Emilio Dickinson.”

“Jughead and I aren’t dating, though. And you’re missing my point, which is that…that’s not changing,” Betty says, blowing out a long breath of air and half-hoping that’ll be the end of the conversation.

He shoots her a skeptically unimpressed look. “Why not? You clearly like him a lot, and trust me, he likes you. What’s the problem? That he lives in—what city is it? Philly? Boston? Boston. Okay so that’s, what, four hours away? Not ideal, but not exactly unmanageable either. It’s not like you’ll be waiting around for the Pony Express to hand-deliver your love letters here.”

Betty sighs, and tucks just air behind her ears—she’s been wearing her hair down so often that she’s almost gotten used to it and forgotten she was wearing a ponytail. She reaches up and tightens it. “He told me he’s not a relationship guy. He’s not looking for anything more than what we already did.”

Kevin frowns, his whole face pinching with disbelief. “Really? I find that hard to believe. I think guys like Jughead are _exclusively_ relationship guys.”

“Well, that’s what he said, exactly,” Betty sighs, even though she silently agrees with Kevin’s assessment. This has been what’s bothering her, after all. In retrospect, she can’t believe he has the nerve to ever criticize his editor speaking in hieroglyphs to him, when all he’s _ever_ done is send her mixed signals.

He reached out to her, then avoided her. He flirted with her—even seemed jealous on at least one occasion—and then shut down. He asked her out, and then told her he wasn’t interested in relationships. He agreed he wanted to hook up without strings, and then he went and gave her the most sensual, emotional sex of her life.

(She still can’t say the word.)

And then, at the barbeque, and then particularly at the party, his hands were wandering and his touches were practically nonlinear, never leaving some part of her. He has never acted like a person who didn’t want anything more, and especially not when it’s just the two of them, skin to skin.

But—he still pushed her away again last night.

Kevin makes a doubtful sound, effectively shaking Betty from her reverie. “No, there must be some comedy of errors going on. Walk me through. How did he say it?”

Betty wracks her brain. “He said…well, we were on our double date at the bowling alley, and he let it slip. You know, trying to make it casual.”

He rolls his eyes impatiently. “What did he say before that? Like, what was the context?”

“Well, he showed me a bowling move, and I made a joke about it, and said he must use that on all the girls. Then he said that there were no other girls, and that…I was the first…oh.”

Her eyes widen, trying to think about this from the point of view of the girl she wishes she was; the confident girl who didn’t take the first vague comment she got and run off with it.

“What? First what?” Kevin says, his eyes bulging when Betty remains silent, running through the memory. “Oh my god, Betty, I work in city government. Literally nothing exciting happens in my life. You _cannot_ just trail off like that halfway through!”

“He said I was the first girl he’d technically ever asked out,” Betty says, in a small voice, because she knows how it sounds now, especially when said aloud.

Kevin throws his hands into the air. “Betty Cooper, you sweet summer child,” he sighs. “ _Obviously_ he likes you a lot then. He probably meant that he didn’t have a lot of relationship experience, not that he didn’t ever want one!”

He pauses, straightening. His voice drops to a scandalized stage whisper. “Wait, he wasn’t a…virgin, was he? _Please_ tell me Elizabeth Voted-Most-Likely-to-Buy-Her-Lingerie-At-The-Gap Cooper got to take someone’s virginity.”

“I don’t buy lingerie at the Gap,” Betty says quickly, flushing. _“Anymore,”_ she adds, to Kevin’s distrustful look. “And no, he wasn’t a virgin.”

Kevin actually pouts, his shoulders deflating almost comically. “Oh well,” he says, more to himself. And then, more presently, “Wait, can’t believe I haven’t asked this yet—how is the sex?”

Betty must burn as brightly as she feels, because Kevin raises his eyebrows and grins. “That good, huh?”

“It’s really good,” she allows, even though that’s barely scratching the surface. She pulls the sleeves of her jumpsuit over her knuckles nervously and bites against a smile she knows is goofily large. “And it’s not just the sex, you know? He relaxes me. I feel so comfortable with him, and like, warm, whenever I look at him. It’s—”

“Betty,” Kevin interrupts, his eyebrows raised. “You know what this sounds like, right?”

“Yeah, I know what it sounds like,” she replies softly. “Don’t say it. Saying it out loud just makes it real.”

The look he gives her is pitying. “No, Betty, no. I think it’s the opposite. Not saying it just makes it have way more power over you. You have to tell him—at least that you like him, or want to stay doing…whatever it is you two are doing.”

She looks over at Kevin, her brows furrowed. He’s probably right, of course. And she’s been battling the understanding that she’s gotten very good at denial lately, to the point where she’s realizing it’s not healthy. It’s making her miserable. And despite what Jughead said about relationships, his words don’t really ring true. Not after the sex they’ve been having or the look on his face when she whispered the word _stay._

But he said what he said. She has to respect that, not look for cracks in between the words.

And besides, what about all the codex and rounding his mouth around the truth when they were talking about his book? Kevin raises his eyebrows again, clearly waiting for her to say something.

 _I’m not a big believer in happily ever afters,_ Jughead had told her.

She sighs. “No, but there was other stuff, too. Other reasons I think he meant it. Weird conversations we had. I think I have to take what he said at face value.”

Kevin doesn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, he fixes her with a very observant look, his eyes narrowing on her like the lens of a camera. “Why are you clinging to settling for this?” He asks finally, almost sounding offended, but whether on his behalf or her own, she’s not sure.

“I’m not _clinging_ to anything,” Betty says hotly, her hackles rising. “ _Or_ settling. I’m just…accepting that this is all the time I’ll get and I’m making the most out of it—okay, now I hear how that sounds like settling.” She lets out a breath, her temper immediately burning out. Hearing her anxious thoughts repeated out loud is always something of a wake up call, which is what Kevin is best at getting her to do.

He looks at her knowingly, and she just shrugs. “But I mean…it’s just the way it is, right? I was just trying to enjoy the time I had with him, while I had it. It’s something I learned after my dad died. There’s no such thing as forever. You have to take what time you’re given with people. You don’t get more.”

He presses his lips together, watching her with understanding. Kevin lost his mother when he was very young, but he doesn’t talk about it often, sometimes to a point; she wonders if she’s brought him back there. Eventually, he shakes his head.

“Okay, that I get. Really, I do. My mom’s been dead almost my whole life and trust me, there are plenty of ways that trauma manifests that still surprises me. But Betty…Jughead’s not dying. It’s not the same thing.”

She looks down at her feet. Kevin’s not wrong; even last night she had to tell herself something to that degree. “Fine. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am clinging to excuses. But…I just don’t want to be hurt again.”

 _“No one_ wants to be hurt, Betty,” Kevin says gently, nudging her with his shoulder. His smile is commiserating, but a bit dubious. “Love isn’t a zero sum game. But nothing earned is nothing risked, you know?”

She exhales shakily and stares off down the driveway. In the tree just beyond the garage, she watches a bird land in its nest. “No, I mean…do you remember February last year? When my dad’s doctors thought the cancer might be in remission?”

Kevin nods, his already soft expression turning softer, as if almost worried where this will go.

Betty releases a laugh, but it’s strangled and sad. “Well…that was one of the happiest weeks of my life. For that one week, I was so _hopeful_ about the future. I thought my dad was going to get to go back to the garage, my mom would stop worrying about hospital bills so much, my sister would not be so overwhelmed, and I…would get to go back to my life. I would get to leave.” The last bit of the sentence breaks off into a choked sound as she tries not to cry, but tears sting at her eyes anyway.

She wipes at them furiously, not looking at Kevin, and attempts to gather herself. “This…this past week feels like _that_ again. The hope. I mean, I _know_ it’s different. I know Jughead doesn’t have a terminal illness hanging over his head, but I’ve been so happy the last few days, in a way I haven’t been since that one week last February, and it scares me.”

Kevin puts an arm around her, and she realizes she’s crying now. Not big fat tears of release and anxiety like she’d had that night with Jughead, standing in her kitchen and whispering over and over that _she can’t, she can’t_ —instead, these tears roll slowly down her cheek in single file, as if it’s a fate they must march towards, but if so, they’ll do it with dignity.

“I’ve just felt like the lesson I should’ve learned from death is that you should enjoy people for what time you have them and not ask for anything more. And I thought…that would be enough to keep my feelings in check; you know, not asking for more. But it didn’t work and…hope is dangerous.”

She shakes her head to herself, and in a small, cracking voice, adds, “I just don’t want to be left behind again.” 

He sighs, long and weary. Kevin is not the friend Betty usually goes to for comforting—that’s Veronica, with her sweetness and her mani-pedi indulgences. Kevin is blunt and occasionally tactless in a way that’s deliberate; because he wants to push someone there, get a response. Sometimes that comes from a place of boredom and seeking entertainment, but other times, like right now, it’s exactly what she needs.

“Look, Betty, I’m going to tell you something only Joaquin knows. I’m not exactly ashamed because _feminism_ , blah, blah, but I will categorize it as a guilty pleasure because I do think they’re terribly written and don’t recommend them. But, since I think you need to hear this—I’ve read every single Nicholas Sparks book, Betty. Literally all of them. And you know what I learned from that? You’ll really regret not telling him. You’ll be sitting on some porch in some Carolina state when you’re eighty and thinking about him and wishing you hadn’t spent all those years wondering what if.”

A valley forms between her eyebrows as she frowns. What does this have to do with anything? “Those are just books, Kev.”

“No, they’re stories,” Kevin insists, his face somber. His eyes move back and forth across her face. “And you need to ask yourself what you want yours to be. I think you need to tell him how you feel, or you’re just going to regret it.”

Her fingers itch with the desire to curl inwards at the question she’s been asking herself her whole life. She inhales, exhales, and resists the urge.

Kevin stares at her. “So. What’s going to be your story, Betty Cooper?”

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True to his nature, Kevin refuses to say anything else, clearly wanting to leave her with the last, cryptically dramatic word. And she hates it, but it works.

It nestles into her thoughts even after he’s gone, like a desperate little haunting. Clinging, he’d said. Settling, he’d argued.

_What’s your story, Betty?_

And what _is_ her story, really? Because from where she stands, it’s not shaping up to much. Sure, she’s got a roof over her head. Solid friends. Living close to her family, seeing them often. A good job—great, by a lot of people’s standards.

 _But it’s empty,_ she thinks. What’s it worth, if the barometer isn’t set by herself, but what others expect of her? She set off for college for the sole purpose of helping other people tell stories; and really, isn’t that all she’s ever done?

She loves editing, she loves reading and critiquing and breaking things down, but without any actual manuscript to funnel that desire into—hasn’t she been doing that to her life? Living to fulfill the desires of others as a way of avoiding asking what her own should be?

Lately, she feels very much a part of her family’s story, and not quite her own. Her mother’s grieving and coping, her sister’s full plate and fuller family; even her father’s garage, and the choice to run it she doesn’t remember ever making.

She’s so mad at Kevin for being so right, but at least is soon spared a further existential spiral by the arrival of Jughead.

He appears at the garage entrance, backlit by the roving sun, like a stranger on the town line at high noon. His shadow becomes smaller as he nears her, as if his feet are winding up the darkness like a ball of string.

“Hey,” he says quietly, once at the Volkswagen. She meets his eyes and briefly can’t find her words, but eventually she wipes her hands on a nearby rag and nods sharply, gesturing for him to follow her into the office.

She settles into her chair as he pulls one forward, reminding her forcefully of the first time he’d come to the garage. It feels like so long ago already. “Kevin was hoping you could sign the book for him before you go,” she says, pushing the copy across the table.

Jughead nods once, pulling a pen from a cup on her desk and scribbles his name across the first page. “Does he want an inscription?”

She hadn’t thought to ask that, but Kevin didn’t mention it either, so she just shrugs. “Whatever you want to say. It’s for his dad.”

He makes a thoughtful noise and dips his head back down, writing something in a slanted hand and then shutting the book and pushing it aside. Their eyes meet, and she promptly swivels in her chair to face the printer behind her, unable to hold his gaze for very long.

“So here’s your bill,” she says, grabbing the paper from the printer. He reaches for it, his face withdrawn, and stares down.

“Looks good,” he sighs, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. She pulls out her card reader and rings him up, not meeting his eyes. The little machine whirs loudly between them as neither say a word, punctuated by the ripping sound she makes as she tears off his receipt for him to sign.

“Your stuff is in your truck,” she says, once he’s signed his name and put the pen down. He looks up at her. “Keys are in the ignition, too. So you’re all set.”

Jughead’s mouth fidgets with a word, but can’t quite seem to find it, because instead he nods and presses his lips together. “Well,” he says, rising from his seat. His face is flushed with a thought. “Thanks. It’s been…I’ve really—um. You know. Thank you.”

 _You know,_ he’d said, as if that summarized everything that’s happened between them. _You know,_ as if calling it the end without ever having to say it. _You know,_ as if she did. Instead, she has to.

He moves for the doorway and she hears herself call out, “Wait, Juggie.” He spins back around, his expression controlled but belying the slightest bit of anxiety. She bites her lip and stands so that they’re on equal footing. “I just wanted to say…well—I just want you to know this past week has meant a lot to me.”

Jughead’s shoulders rise with a sharp inhalation, his eyes widening, and she watches his jaw tick for a moment before realizing he might have no idea how to reply to that. But his lack of social grace has done nothing but endear him to her before, so she tries to bridge the gap, forcing herself to get to what she has to say next.

She swallows, straightening. “I know that we…talked about things, beforehand. And I know we both agreed that we would keep this casual. But…” She trails off, trying to find the strength to face a likely rejection, and he seems to be bouncing out of his shoes, but nevertheless waits for her to continue. “But I was hoping maybe things changed for you. I mean, I know you said you didn’t want a relationship, but I just mean, maybe we could stay in touch, or I don’t know, if I’m ever in Boston—”

“Wait,” he interrupts, saving her from her own feverish ramblings. He looks bewildered. “When did I say I didn’t want a relationship?”

She gapes at him, her heart hammering madly against her ribcage. “Wh—at the bowling alley! You were talking about…other girls, and then you said that you weren’t a relationship guy.”

“Wasn’t a…” He pauses, as if trying to remember. Then he slaps his forehead. “Jesus, I meant that I didn’t have a lot of _dating_ experience. I’ve never _had_ a relationship, that’s all. Not that I didn’t—so you thought—” He cuts himself off, his jaw clenching again. “Is that why you said you wanted to just…get it out of our systems?”

“Oh my god,” is all she can muster to say, staring at him as the wheels turn in her head. She feels a hot rush of embarrassment for missing this so fully. He _does_ like her. “Kevin was right.”

“Is that a yes?” He asks hesitantly, when she doesn’t extrapolate. Her mouth is dropped open and she nods mutely, unable to find her voice. His whole body sags with relief, his messenger bag even falling to the floor as his shoulders deflate. He mutters a string of curse words, and then reaches forward and cups her face with his hands, kissing her so soundly her heels rise off the floor.

When they break for air, Jughead drops his forehead against hers and releases a long kept sigh. His eyes are closed, and when they finally open there’s something very blue swimming beyond. “I can’t believe I’ve been torturing myself over something so utterly Ephronian as miscommunication,” he says lowly, relief still coloring his voice.

Her heart once again feels like it’s going to break out of her chest, but now for entirely opposite reasons. “Well, we have to have a talk about mixed signals, by the way,” she says softly, her hand finally smoothing out the itch in his jaw.

He chuckles. “Yeah, it may have been brought up to me once or twice I’m not great at avoiding self-destruction. But—um, for the record, since I realize I haven’t actually said this yet,” he adds, looking at her fully. “I really like you.”

Betty releases the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “I really like you too,” she says, with all the shyness of a preteen valentine. She pauses, still somehow nervous. “I don’t want to say goodbye.”

Jughead stares at her. “What did you say?”

 _Was that the wrong thing?_ She blinks back at him, once again unable to decipher his expression. Shocked might be the easiest word to describe it, but there’s something working there, a moving thought. “I don’t want to say goodbye,” she repeats. “I just mean…I know you have to leave, but I wish—”

“Come with me,” he interrupts, so quickly and almost so jumbled that it takes her a moment to process. The tips of his ears burn bright red, but his eyes are true.

“To Chicago, I mean. You don’t have to meet my sister, or go to the ceremony or anything. I’m only going to be there like four or five days. We can even do stupid tourist stuff, like go see the Bean or whatever. I’ve seen how hard you work and—and you definitely deserve a fucking vacation. And I was just going to crash on JB’s couch, but we’ll get a hotel. In the city, we don’t have to stay in Evanston, and—”

There’s a tightness in her chest she would do anything to absolve. She’s shaking her head, and he immediately falls silent halfway through the sentence. “I want to,” she says firmly, hoping if she says it with enough strength he’ll understand how much she means it. She reaches forward and takes his hand. “It sounds amazing. Really, I want to. But Juggie, I have responsibilities. I have the garage, and deadlines. I can’t just up and have a vacation without any notice.”

Jughead nods, almost more to himself. The blush on his ears is creeping in onto his neck now. “Yeah, yeah of course,” he sighs. “That makes a lot of sense. I often forget that not everyone has a recklessly freelance job.”

“Hey,” she says softly, because he looks almost rejected, and that’s the last thing she wants. “Really, I want to go. You have no idea how much I would love to hop in the truck with you and pretend nothing else mattered. But just because I can’t _now,_ doesn’t mean I can’t ever. Joaquin is done with his semester next week, and he wants a lot of hours in June before he and Kevin go to Europe. So I’ll have the time. I could come to Boston?”

He looks relieved once more, and nods with a slight smile. She smiles up at him, and squeezes his hand. “See? It’s fine.”

“Do you realize how many times a day you say ‘it’s fine’?” He asks, chuckling without much amusement. She tilts her head at him. “Please, don’t do that. At least not with me.”

“I don’t—” She starts to say, but he shoots her a skeptical grin and she knows he’s right. That’s become something of her mantra—perhaps it always has been. She supposes she can’t be want to be seen and understood by him without it also bearing the cost of some uncomfortable truths. “Okay,” she says finally.

He nods and kisses her again, as if he can’t stop himself, smiling so dopily that it’s infectious. “Okay,” he repeats, as he pulls back.

“And we’ll figure it out,” Betty says, reaching forward and taking his hand. “We’ll call, and we’ll text, and there’s Skype, and Instagram, and Facebook. We’ll just…keeping talking, and see where that goes.”

He nods resignedly. “Yeah. I’m gonna miss you though, Cooper.”

She smiles up at him. “I’m gonna miss you too. But we’ll figure it out.”

“So you keep saying,” he grins. He pulls her closer, his arms looping around her back. One of his hands dips into the back pocket of her jumpsuit and squeezes playfully at her ass. “Can’t do that through Skype,” he mutters lowly.

Betty bites her lip as her whole body begins to warm. Her hand moves up his arm. “Well…want one for the road?”

Jughead appears briefly confused, but then catches her meaning. He laughs soundly. “You’re offering me a quickie?”

She shrugs, pretending to look impassive. “Well, if you don’t want t—mmph!” She never quite gets to the end of her sentence, because Jughead has pressed his lips against hers and is walking her backwards towards the couch in her office. She reaches up and tugs him down with her, his kisses becoming more heated. He settles in over her, happy to be occupied with roaming hands.

“Juggie,” she murmurs, breaking the kiss, “the door. Go lock the door.”

“Damn it,” he mutters, but knows she’s right. She’s grateful she already closed the blinds earlier, trying to keep herself from staring out at his truck. He quickly scrambles off of her in order to deadbolt the door and then wastes no time climbing back on top of her on the couch, his hands flying towards the front zipper of her jumpsuit. As he pulls it down, he breaks the kiss, jerking his head back and looking down at her bra underneath the suit.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” he breathes. “You haven’t been wearing anything but your underwear under this thing?”

“I never do,” she admits, laughing as he groans loudly. “What? I overheat!”

He inhales sharply and stares down at her, his eyes blown black with desire. “Are you telling me that every single time I’ve been in the garage with you, this is all you’ve been wearing?”

She bites her lip against a grin. “Maybe.”

The sound he makes is almost a growl as he kisses her again. He finishes zipping her out of her work suit and she wriggles out of it so that she’s just in her underwear, while he pulls his shirt off with astounding speed. He climbs back on top of her, and both are satisfied to grind against one another for a spell as their lips tangle feverishly.

“I want you,” she whispers against his jaw as she peppers it with kisses. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”

“We have all the time in the world,” Jughead says, shaking his head. “But for now, you’re right. I’ve got traffic to beat.” He says it like a joke, but it’s more bluntly truthful than either can focus on right now. He leans back, digs around for his wallet, procures a condom from it, and then immediately shucks off his jeans and boxers. She shimmies out of her underwear and he kisses her firmly, their bodies once again rubbing against one another, offering her only the slightest bit of relief.

Ironically, this is the first time Jughead seems to have no intentions of going slowly. He reaches down and finds her already ready for him, so after a bit of condom rolling and fumbling with aligning, he’s stretching her and beginning to move.

Next time, now that she knows there will _be a next time,_ and another, and another—she will be on top. But for now, this is more than enough, even though she starts to understand why he’d been so focused on the sensual sex before. This is over almost before it began, and it ends with her arm wrapped around his neck, gasping into each other’s mouths as he moves atop her, coming with a fragmented pulse.

He pulls out, and dimly seems to realize she never came, so his fingers immediately drop back down to her clit and offer circles until she’s panting and climaxing.

“Sorry,” he says, once it’s done. He’s breathing heavily. “I think I went too fast.”

Betty shakes her head, trying to catch her own breath, and manages a throaty laugh. “Don’t apologize, it was supposed to be a quickie.”

He scoffs, still smiling, and presses kisses along her ear. “I’m going to miss the fuck out of you.”

She catches his face with both hands. “I’ll be visiting Boston before you know it,” she assures him. His eyes sweep across her own, but eventually he nods, as if more to himself.

They lay there like that, strewn out on her old brown leather couch, for as long as they can justify. She’s not really sure how long it is they spend there, idly cuddling, but eventually she becomes hyper aware of the fact that she’s naked but for her bra in her place of business. “I think I should get dressed. And you should get going, if you do want to beat traffic.”

He sighs, but rolls off of her. There’s something almost more intimate about re-dressing next to someone, and like fireflies greeting each other in the grass, their eyes flick back and forth, smiling to themselves.

Jughead tugs his shirt back over his head and crosses the room to pick up his messenger bag from the floor.

She meets him there, laces their fingers together, and unlocks the door.

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Eventually, he does leave. They both begrudgingly know he has to, but he drags it out as much as he can, even going so far as to offer to stick around for an extra day or two. But she shakes her head sadly and reminds him that he has a reason to be in Chicago and logically, he should go.

The feeling can’t be described as much else than _bittersweet_ as he slides into the truck and closes the side door soundly. Jughead runs his hands across the curve of the wheel, and then looks over at her as he turns on the engine. It purrs to life happily, matched only by the smile that breaks across his face. “Better than a memory,” he says, almost under his breath. “You did an amazing job, Betts.” She beams at him, and leans in through the open window to kiss him softly.

“I have to go back to my motel and pack up,” he adds against her mouth. “It might take me a while, I’m due on some revisions I haven’t gotten to, and I should probably get those done before I leave. But I’ll call you once I’m about to head on the road.”

“And when you get in, okay?” She asks, and he nods, grinning. She reaches a hand forward and cups his face. “This isn’t goodbye.”

“It isn’t goodbye,” he repeats, as if assuring himself. Betty pulls herself out of the window and nods at him in a gesture that tells him it’s time. She waves at him until he’s turned left off the drive and out of sight, feeling as though there’s a loud bell tolling in her chest.

The nagging thought there is not one of insecure fear; she doesn’t believe she’s going to lose him by not constantly being around him. That much she’s sure of—so she’s not quite sure what’s making her feel so uncertain.

She has to repeat the facts back at herself; she can’t just up and leave the garage, she was right to say no. She was being a responsible adult. She will see him soon. They will talk later, and then again tonight. It wasn’t a goodbye.

Betty forces herself back to the Volkswagen at hand, and manages to make it all the way to 4:30 before admitting her focus has been slipping since he left. Her cell phone rings on her worktable, saving her from any more begrudging work, even though she expects that it’s Jughead, finally about to leave.

But it’s not.

“Polly?” Betty asks into the phone, after staring at the caller ID for a moment.

“Hi!” Polly chirps. “So…big favor.”

 _Oh._ Her stomach curls, and she allows herself an eye roll towards the ceiling. “You want me to pick up the kids from after school care,” she guesses, and the light sigh on the other end confirms it.

“Would you?” Polly pleads. “I totally miscalculated how much work I have here at the office and don’t think I’m going to get out of here any time soon. And since the garage closes at five, I thought…”

Betty takes a deep breath. “It’s fine,” she says, and as soon as she does, hears Jughead’s voice asking her not to. Damn, he was right. “I mean, sure. I’m closing up soon anyway.”

“You’re the best, thank you, thank you!” Her sister squeals, with obvious reprieve. “Okay, I’ll see you tonight! Love you, gotta run!”

She has all but one second to get out a, “bye” before Polly ends the call. Betty stares at her phone, allows herself a frustrated huff, and gets ready to close up. She has a cash drawer to count and accounts to update, but she can’t find the inclination no matter how hard she tries, and decides to do it in the morning. Instead, she pulls back on her jeans and top and locks up the rolling gates without a backwards glance.

The clouds that were rumbling ominously this morning have broken into rain now, and as she sits at a stoplight, watching her wiper blades bounce back and forth, she wonders once again why Polly hasn’t found a new nanny.

In her defense, she actually hasn’t told her sister how much this is starting to wear on her. What began as a simple act of goodwill here and there has become almost a regular occurrence. And it’s not so much the errand side of it—as it is the expectation that she’ll just _always_ do it.

And why wouldn’t there be, when she’s never said no? Even Polly herself had said in passing that they’ve looked for a nanny but not found one because no one compared to Betty; she’s not even sure that Polly realizes she’s pulling an Alice Cooper, signing her up for an unspoken competition against a stranger in which no one can really win, and especially not Betty.

The light turns green, but Betty sits in her spot until a car honks warningly behind her. She quickly speeds up, but as she drives through the main drag of town that will take her towards the school, she wonders what will happen if she just doesn’t show up—or if she just keeps driving, maybe all the way to Chicago?

The idea of going back to the garage tomorrow and going through receipts and running accounts and counting the drawer and even working on the Volkswagen sends her heart into a dread of anxiety. What if she just—didn’t? Snapped? Threw all of her caution into the wind? Like the kettle boiling, begun to whistle and shake because no one ever bothered to turn off the burner?

Said no, and didn’t stop saying it?

She misses the turn off for the school on purpose, a thrill running up her spine. But she’s still _her,_ so she reaches for her phone and finds Cheryl’s phone number. She picks up on the third ring, sounding already impatient.

“Hello?” Cheryl asks, her voice sharp even through speakerphone.

“I need you to go get the twins from after school care,” Betty says immediately, before she loses her nerve.

“Excuse me?” Cheryl laughs, in a high-pitched voice of offense.

“Polly asked me to, but I can’t anymore,” she explains, now driving past Pop’s. “So I need you to do it.”

“I have a _job,_ in case you don’t remember. I can’t just leave work,” Cheryl sighs, already becoming bored.

“I’m pretty sure one of the benefits of working for your family business is that you get to leave a little early, or take time off when you need it,” Betty replies, now wondering if she’s talking more about herself. “Please go do it. Or make Jason do it, I don’t really care.”

 _“God,_ fine, I will,” she scoffs. There’s a pause across the line. “But, if I’m going to, you’ll have to satisfy my curiosity. Why can’t you? I’m struggling to find a time that _your_ goody-goody ass didn’t follow through.”

“I’m…I’m going to Chicago,” Betty says, all in one breath. “With Jughead. Just for a couple days. I need a vacation, and…I just can’t be here right now. I need to…try something.”

Cheryl is silent for a long moment. Then, with surprising tenderness, “Hm, well. Good for you, _Lavinia._ Even if I suppose this means you can’t help me pick out an outfit for my date this weekend.”

Betty smiles softly, although Cheryl can’t see it. “Send me try-on photos.”

With a sigh that is more for show than anything, Cheryl says, “Mm-hmm. See you when you get back.” And then she clicks off, the call ending just as Betty pulls into the driveway of her house. She only bothers with the garage because it’s the fastest way into the house, and as she jogs up the stairs towards her room, makes another phone call.

“Betty?” Jughead asks through the line. “What’s up? Did I forget something?”

“You haven’t left yet, right?” She asks breathily, probably only half because she’s now rifling through her closet, trying to find a suitable weekend bag.

“No,” he says slowly. Betty finds the big canvas bag she’d been looking for, and lets out a light _a-ha._

“What room are you in?”

“216—Betty, what’s going on?”

“Just…stay there,” she instructs, and then promptly hangs up, even as she hears him start to say something else. She runs around her room, almost giddy with excitement, and throws clothes and shoes and make up and anything she might need and a few lacy things she definitely will.

She almost bothers to write her mother a note, as she’s set to arrive back home tomorrow, but in the end, doesn’t want to waste any more time in this town than she has to and will deal with the fallout when it arrives. As soon as she’s packed, she hops back in her car and drives straight on to the motel. She’ll probably have to drop it back at the garage before they leave, but she doesn’t care.

(She doesn’t care, she doesn’t care.)

Reaching the motel with record speed, Betty hauls her bag onto her shoulder and then finds Jughead’s room, knocking soundly a few times. He throws open the door, looking bemused. His eyes dart from her to her bag, a nervous smile unfurling across his face. “Betty—”

“I changed my mind,” she says immediately. “I want to go with you.”

He lets out a breath in the shape of a grin. “You do? What about the garage?”

“I don’t…care, somehow. You were right. I need a vacation. And…I want it with you,” Betty says, watching his entire face soften with something indescribable.

“Fuck,” he laughs, pulling her into his arms and kissing her swiftly. The bag falls to their feet. “Jesus, I woke up so miserable today. I can’t believe—you’re sure?”

She nods. “I’m sure. Let’s go to Chicago.”

One arm leaves her waist in order for his hand to run through his hair, making it match the blown-back look still on his face. He grins widely. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go to Chicago.”

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: _sister_ by angel olsen. this is also the lyric at the top; once the bubble popped between them, so did the music bubble! it's not just timeless oldies now. anyway--this song _is_ betty in so many ways. highly recommend.
> 
> sorry for the slow update this go around, though hopefully the length made up for it (10k!). this chapter drove me crazy, i rewrote it so many times, because betty's angst is less visceral than jughead's, but no less present, and tonally a lot harder to get right. i'm not completely happy with it, but i couldn't sit rewriting it any longer. hopefully y'all liked it!
> 
> they've both been very guilty of staving off communication, and i spent enough time explaining why jughead does it; now betty has to face the music. i really wanted to write a story without villains. as in, the issues that kept them apart were always internal and built on their own excuses. i think that's just so much more heartbreaking, because often we always get in our own way.
> 
> anyway---this is _not_ the end! there's a fair amount left to go. meeting JB, chicago, and a few other nuggets. so stick around, and pretty, pretty please drop me a review! they mean so much.
> 
> on that note, i've been so busy this past week, traveling to see the eclipse while balancing work and this fic, that i just didn't get to everyone's comments yet. i really hate doing them belatedly because you guys are so sweet and so amazing and i want to shower you in my tear-stained thanks, but i thought the best thing i could do would be to update sooner rather than later. 
> 
> so the rest of my comment replies are coming soon!! xx


	15. Chapter 15

_With hot rain at a hiss,_  
_Soft as a kiss_  
_All for wonder, glory, and grace_

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.

They finally untangle from one another, realizing that if they’re ever going to _get_ to Chicago, he actually has to finish packing.

There’s not a lot left to do, since he hasn’t brought much with him in the first place, but it still takes a solid half hour to make sure everything is put away. He’d arranged for a late check out this morning and he’s absolutely pushing it, but one of the benefits of staying in a perennially vacant hotel is the flexibility. The man at the desk seemed to care so little, Jughead was almost jealous.

Once he’s done, Betty mentions she has to drop her car off at the garage, so they quickly take care of that and then she’s practically running back to the truck, hopping inside and closing the door with a finality. “Let’s go, let’s go!” She says with excitement, bubbling and bouncing in her seat.

He grins, turns the ignition, and the truck roars to life.

.

.

.

They call in an order of Pop’s to-go, and Jughead volunteers to grab it, jogging inside with the engine still running. When he comes back, bags in hand, Betty is zooming in and out of the map on her phone.

“Oh! There’s another Riverdale just twenty miles outside of Chicago,” she exclaims, as he pulls out of the parking lot. “I put in directions and it thought I meant there. Anyway, it’s a solid twelve hours to Chicago from here, so maybe we should have a game plan.”

He nods, reaching across the seat into the bag of fries. “Let’s go straight there,” he says through a mouthful. “I don’t really care about seeing America’s Biggest Rocking Chair, to be honest. Plus I have an inkling JB hasn’t packed nearly as much as she said she would and will probably require my extra set of hands.”

“So maybe…we drive to the next biggest city because it’ll be easiest to find a hotel, and then get an early start tomorrow morning? What do you think?” She glances up at him when he doesn’t say anything. “Juggie?”

He’s listening, he’s trying so hard to listen—but it’s difficult when he’s resisting the urge to pinch himself. Frankly, Jughead is still playing catch up with the fact that she not only likes him, she wants to be with him, let alone the fact that she’s sitting here in his truck, about to accompany him onwards for the rest of his trip.

_I want a vacation, and I want it with you._

“Right,” he says, attempting to focus. “Yeah, that sounds good. What’s the first city?”

“Let’s see…” She tries a couple of route configurations on her phone. “We should take route 80, it’s the most direct. So it looks like Scranton is closest. It’s about two hours away.”

“Ah.” He clicks his tongue. “I get it now. This was all for me to chauffeur you to the Dunder Mifflin museum.”

She laughs, her eyes rolling. “I said I wanted watch The Office one time!”

“Uh, yeah, you said it once and then we watched at least six episodes in a row,” Jughead reminds her, grinning. It’d been on Tuesday evening, possibly their most domestic to date, and a night he’s eager to replicate.

She blows out a puff of exasperation, but without much heat to it. “Take a left at the light, that’ll put you onto 80. Anyway, other options are to find a roadside hotel when we get tired, but that’s hard to predict vacancy or call ahead if we don’t know where we’re stopping. Or we can drive on to Ohio, but that’s like six hours and I think that’s a lot because it’s already getting dark. So I propose we sleep in Scranton, and then tomorrow we stop in Toledo, because then on Saturday we can get up and head on to Chicago easily. It’s only about four hours away.”

He has something of a visceral reaction at the mention of Toledo; his stomach feeling like it’s fallen out of his entire fucking body and his whole face twisting up. Unsurprisingly, Betty immediately catches it. “What? What’s wrong?”

Jughead inhales bracingly, changing lanes to get a rogue Honda off his tail. “My mom’s in Toledo.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, but senses her whole body fall still. “Oh.”

“I mean, I think she is,” he says, letting out the breath. “Or was, at some point. That’s where she’s from, and I always guessed that’s where she went when she took off. Probably back to her parents. But…again, it was just a theory. Although if I wanted to be morbid about it, I don’t even know if she’s still alive at this point.”

She reaches across the seat and grabs his hand. “Okay. Then we won’t go there.”

He shakes his head. “I doubt I’ll run into her in line for continental breakfast at a roadside Holiday Inn Express,” he says, trying to rationalize the palpations in his chest. He tells himself the likelihood that she’s still even in Ohio is slim at best; she was always a restless type of person. After all, she said that was what she’d once loved about his father, rolling into town on the back of a motorcycle and promising her the road.

Jughead makes the mistake of glancing over at Betty, and knows she sees right through him. He deflates a bit. “But maybe we could skip it, just in case.”

“Of course,” she says firmly, squeezing his hand supportively. “We can even skip Ohio altogether if you want, and just drive all day tomorrow.”

He nods, more relieved than he’d like to admit—though truthfully, he’s not sure which would send him into a bigger panic spiral: running into his mother, or his father. He has an immediate pang of guilt, because for however much he fought with his father and stressed over his well being, deep down Jughead knows FP Jones did _try,_ however crappy the attempt was. His mother just up and quit altogether.

He has no idea where either of them are, but he suspects his father is still drifting somewhere around New England, so logically his mother must be nowhere within a stone’s throw of that. By the end of it, the two of them were like two negative charges, magnetically incapable of coming together. But he’s much more steeled to spot his father on the street in the South End of Boston than he is to meet his mother ever again, so really, he shouldn’t be comparing them.

Still.

He worries about her whereabouts, in the sense that he never wants to cross her path and it feasibly could happen at any time. It’s a thought he’s had more than once, especially after JB went off to college.

Gladys Jones was a down-home Midwest girl, and he’s spent countless nights lying awake, worrying about his sister living next to the biggest Midwest city around and accidentally seeing their mother at some mall or somewhere innocuous. JB took her abandonment hardest of all, and he doesn’t want her to be rejected again.

On more than one occasion, she begged Jughead to help track their mother down, to call their grandparents and reach out for information. And he’d genuinely thought about it for her sake, but decided it wasn’t worth the heartache, for either of them. There was something inherently more painful about learning his mother could be obnoxiously easy to find, neither missing nor lost, and he wasn’t willing to risk that truth.

He’s never been fully convinced JB didn’t learn that the hard way; there was a point, that low point, when she was sixteen and right after their father lost custody of her and Jughead had become her legal guardian, that he was _sure_ she’d tried.

She never confirmed it, but there had been a moment a couple of weeks right after their father was sentenced. Jughead was visibly struggling to support her and manage being a college student, and JB mentioned thinking it’d be so much easier on him if she could go live with their mother.

He’d shot it down immediately, already sure that he was about to lose his scholarship due to slipping grades due to aforementioned stress, so he’d have one less thing on his plate soon enough. And regardless, there was no way he was putting his baby sister through the emotional wringer of changing schools and moving who knows where to be with the mother who abandoned them.

But JB had glowered at him, a bullish look in her eye. And then there’d been that fitfully wintery day, not wholly unlike the one that their mom had left, where he’d come home from class and she had the evident marks of tears on her face and refused to tell him why, even after he reminded her of the promise that they not keep secrets.

It didn’t matter. He could guess the truth. He’d told her not to look for their mother, so the likelihood was that she’d done it anyway, probably in spite of him as much as for him.

JB is not the fall-on-her-sword type, but she’s always had an impetuous streak of rebellion. It was cute when she was a kid, her hands on her hips as she plainly stated that no one was the boss of her, cutting her own hair in the bathroom sink, and slowly inching the volume up on her speakers after their father yelled at her to keep it down.

But then _Jughead_ became the pseudo adult in the family, even though he was 21 and barely adept at TurboTax, and he suddenly had to learn how to be an authority figure for the wild child that had become a wild teenage girl. Not that she really needed discipline, nor did Jughead want to distrust her enough to be strict, but there were the times he felt like the bad guy in a way he’d never understood before.

The only thing he cared about was making sure she got from A to B, as long as B was always her choice of futures. Still, it was a miracle she turned out as smart as she did, and he’s endlessly thankful she was a punk ass with a plan.

(It turns out a college essay about the dive into anthropological musical subcultures correlated within her troubled childhood was a hit. Go figure.)

If he’s being honest with himself, supposes he has that ingrained, probably genetic desire for insurgency too, though without the opportunity to indulge it in the same way—so he understood. He always understood, but it never stopped reality from presenting itself. The moment he became an adult figure in her life was the moment he felt her resist him, as if on principle alone.

He said no, she thought _yes._

It never really went anywhere; all of their screaming matches ended wherein they both just agreed to give up, and she never _outwardly_ defied him—but perhaps that was only because he never caught her.

Regardless, at this point, he’s not entirely sure his sister would recognize Gladys Jones even if she was wearing a nametag—sometimes he’s not convinced he would, usually after blustery moments of catching the eye of an older black-haired woman at random—but it still gnaws at him. He’ll be glad to have JB with him in Boston for many reasons, but this is yet another one.

“You’ve been quiet for a while,” Betty says, squeezing his hand again. He realizes he’s been holding it the whole time and it’s a gentle reprieve from his thoughts.

“Thinking,” he sighs. “About my sister, mostly.”

“I’m excited to meet her,” she says, and he looks over at her with a surprised smile. Betty never formally said whether she did or didn’t want to meet JB or come to the ceremony, but to be fair, she’d then thought she couldn’t come.

“Yeah?” He asks, eyebrows raised. “You sure? She can be a lot to handle.”

“I want to know you,” she reminds him. His whole chest blooms with warmth and it takes all his willpower to focus on driving and not kissing her. “That includes your family, Juggie. And you’ve already met _my_ crazy family anyway. Fair’s fair.”

“Yet for your mother, which has been certainly hyped as the apocalypse of the season,” he quips, earning him a slap on the arm. “Okay, first truck rule, and this should really go without saying: no hitting the driver. Second rule: supply him with french fries.”

Without taking his eyes from the road, he opens his mouth wide, and angling his head just enough to imply he wants her to throw one there. He flinches slightly as her attempt misses and instead hits him squarely in the cheek.

She laughs, and takes the next fry for herself.

.

.

.

They hit town at just shy of nine o’clock, but it feels like midnight for the day he’s had. The _Welcome To Scranton!_ sign is different than the one in the opening credits of The Office, and he can tells it disappoints Betty more than she’ll say.

She’s been calling around cheap hotels since before they hit the state line and finds one on the second try. It’s not much, and certainly not as wallet-friendly as Riverdale’s vaguely decrepit Flamingo Inn, but all in all, not a huge hit when he remembers he’s sharing the costs with Betty.

There’s a half-baked attempt at offering to pay for the whole thing, considering he was going to if she hadn’t come along, but truthfully he probably _would’ve_ attempted to drive for twelve hours straight or, if that hadn’t worked, been forced to power nap in some highway McDonald’s parking lot. Betty doesn’t accept the suggestion anyway.

They pull their bags out of the truck bed and check in. He has a shock of thrill standing at the front desk with her, because he has the first realization of how much they look like a couple. He’s not technically sure they are, but it at least feels like they’re going that way. She’d said the world _relationship_ a couple of times, even through a haze of misunderstanding, but he hopes that meant she was asking for one.

He himself hadn’t even realized that was exactly what he wanted until he’d had to defend himself against it. But he understands now how much he wants to be with her, in whatever form it may take or distance it might stretch.

They hold hands through the lobby, up the elevator, and towards the room, neither saying a word but smiling to themselves all the way. He lets her go to fiddle with the room key and carry their bags across the threshold, and as he’s shuffling them over to the standing rack, her phone rings. She looks at it, frowning.

“It’s my sister,” she says warily, and then clicks it to silent. It rings out and goes black.

He raises an eyebrow. From what he could observe, she and her sister were very close, and it seems uncharacteristic of Betty to dodge a call from her. She glances over, her hands smoothing down her ponytail. Bafflingly, he can’t tell if she appears guilty or unconcerned. Somehow both.

“I was supposed to pick the twins up again, and…instead I’m here. I mean, I got Cheryl to do it, I didn’t just _leave_ them there, but I don’t want to deal with it yet,” she explains, catching his eye and sitting down onto the bed.

“Avoidance only makes the heart grow stronger,” he quips, folding his arms and grinning at her. “I would know.”

She fixes him with a flat look. “That’s definitely not the phrase,” she says, yawning halfway through it and suddenly looking adorably sleepy.

“Hey, if it helps,” he says softly, squatting in front of her on the bed. “Selfishly, I’m really glad you’re here.”

Betty’s face softens. “Me too,” she says, leaning forward to kiss him, but without much intention behind it. He thinks they’re both too tired for anything handsy anyway. They change into their pajamas—hers are littered with a predictably cute smattering of ducks, his are even more predictably gray—and climb into bed.

She nestles into him, sighing quietly, as he pulls his laptop in front of them and queues up an episode of The Office on Netflix. Betty turns her head to look up at him, and he just grins down at her. “Come on. We can’t be in Scranton and _not_ watch this.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she says innocently. He scoffs and stretches his arm over her stomach.

Onscreen, Jim looks at Pam from across the room.

.

.

.

He wakes unsure of where he is.

For a moment, he thinks they’re back in Betty’s bedroom, sleeping under the watchful eye of lush pinks—and he looks at the wall and wonders if they never even left his hotel room. Then yesterday comes back to him.

The dawning that had his anguish had largely been because of misinterpretation, the quickie on the couch; the excitement in her face when he’d opened the door and his own as he realized what that meant.

And it brings him to the moment, Betty curled up against him, his arm slung over her waist, and he experiences something odd, almost impossible to describe. It’s a weighted lightness, somehow, as if he could float right up to the ceiling while still feeling so full and grounded to his body.

It’s almost like the heart of the bubble again, but that’s not quite right either. Perhaps because it’s missing that shadowy sense of disaster, but it’s hard to place.

He realizes she’s already awake. She turns in his arms. “Hi,” she says softly.

Jughead grins widely. “Hi,” he repeats, as has become tradition.

Then, much to his disappointment, she pushes herself up on her elbows and rolls out of bed, walking over to her bag and looking for clean clothes. “Betts, come back,” he says, veering on a whine. What good is a vacation if she’s still waking up with the sun? He wants her in his arms again. He wants a lazy morning in which he shows her nothing but praise and admiration.

In a move that feels deliberately teasing, she glances at him as she pulls her sleep shirt over her head, giving him a good view of her bare back. “We’re getting an early start, remember?”

He groans and falls back against his pillow, and when he looks at her again, she’s wearing a bra and buttoning her top. “Well, that was a bad idea,” he mutters, as she snags his laptop from the nightstand and sits on the end of the bed.

“We have a lot of driving to do today, Juggie,” she reminds him.

She fiddles with the computer for a few minutes, the keys clacking as he watches her Googling. He should’ve never given her his password, even though in retrospect she probably could’ve guessed it by now. Considering HotDog123 is not exactly the pinnacle of security, he’s glaringly hackable for someone with a taste for moon landing conspiracy theories. “What are you doing?”

“I didn’t find us a hotel in Chicago yet,” she says distractedly. “I want to make sure that’s taken care of before breakfast.”

“I thought this vacation was supposed to be spontaneous. Do it later,” he murmurs, shifting across the sheets so that he’s behind her. He hasn’t quite lost his hope that she’ll undress and come back to bed, so he drops kisses along her neck until he feels her inhale shakily beneath him.

Betty sighs, but it’s not quite in annoyance. “Do you want to be doing that on your sister’s couch?”

It does the trick faster than ice bucket. “Point taken,” he says, heaving himself off the bed to go brush his teeth. When he comes back, Betty’s on the phone making a reservation and inquiring about parking, so he leaves her to it as he changes into the day’s outfit, though it’s honestly not much different from before.

He hears her hang up just as he’s pulled on his rotary pair of black jeans. “All set,” she chirps. “I made sure there was garage security too, just in case we have to put some of JB’s moving boxes there.”

“Have I told you you’re amazing today?” He grins, watching a blush darken across her cheeks. It’s like the finger plugging the dam has been pulled away, and every thought of wonder and appreciation for her no longer has a reason to be restrained. He wants her to know how special he thinks she is, and he doesn’t care if he looks like a sap doing it.

“No, not today,” she says softly, and with his favorite shy smile.

Jughead takes her face in both hands, his thumb swiping lightly against her cheek. “Well. You’re amazing.”

There’s a growing thought in her eye.

.

.

.

After packing up and checking out of the hotel, they leave Scranton. He wonders aloud if they should genuinely try to find some sort of cheesy tourist-trap for the show, but as he expects, she just reminds him they have a very full day of highway ahead of them, now that they’re barreling through Ohio without really stopping.

They take turns driving, and he won’t lie, there’s something of a turn on about watching her shift gears so comfortably. It does a reasonably good job at distracting him from the miles of boredom. He’s done this drive before, when he and his dad drove JB out to college the first time, and it’s quite as monotonous as he remembers it being.

Sure, there’s the spare turn off for kitschy aesthetics that could be interesting, if he was a person who could openly admit his taste in Americana was occasionally lower-brow than just Edward Hopper. And Betty is probably open-minded enough to stop at the third Corn Museum they see, but if he’s being honest, he’s been anxious since crossing the state line into Ohio, and all he cares about is getting to Chicago.

He barely wants to stop to even grab a fast food lunch or go to the bathroom, ridiculous as it feels. They cycle through the driving playlist he’d originally made for the trip twice, and the rest of the road is filled by a tongue-in-cheek game of Eye Spy wherein the options are always something green or something gray.

They share more stories of childhood pets, he allows himself to admit he did go through a Bukowski phase he thoroughly regrets and apologizes for, and she comforts him by revealing how many times she read _The Mists of Avalon_ (three) and that she was thoroughly a unicorn girl until age thirteen.

Her phone pings and vibrates all day with calls and texts, but she ignores every single one of them. He gets it, so he doesn’t ask. 

After another couple of hours, Betty checks the map on her phone. “Okay, just 300 miles left to go,” she says happily. She’s noticed his dip in mood whenever they have to stop and seems to be compensating with positive energy, and he’s grateful for how much it helps. “What do you want to do when we get in? I’m thinking we’ve earned some room service. Or maybe we just go to bed, it’ll be late. Unless you want to see your sister first?”

He cringes with a realization. “Oh, fuck, that reminds me. I forgot to call JB and tell her we were on the road,” he groans. He pulls out his phone and goes to his _favorites_ section in his contacts, the assembly of which is just his sister’s and Archie’s numbers. He wonders if he should add Betty yet.

As he’s the one driving, he puts the call on speakerphone. JB picks up after a few rings, sounding groggy and annoyed. “Ugh, what?” She snaps over the line.

“Yikes, you sound terrible,” he tells her. “Unsurprisingly for someone waking up after noon. I’m just letting you know that we’re on our way.”

“What time s’it?” She grumbles, this phone call obviously having woken her up. “Wait, what’d you say?”

“We’re en route to Chicago,” he repeats, and she grunts as if sitting upright.

“What’s your ETA?” She asks, now sounding a bit more alert.

“We’ll get in late tonight,” he says, glancing over at Betty for confirmation. She nods. “Sorry, we actually left yesterday, but by the time I remembered to call it was already late.”

JB makes a garbled noise over the phone that he can’t quite place, but he chalks it up to sleepiness. “Okay,” she breathes.

“Did you still want me to come over and help you pack? Or are you already done?” He knows the answer, because he knows his sister, but figures it’s decent to ask anyway.

“Um,” JB says in response, which confirms it. “I mean, I’ll be done by tomorrow, for sure.”

He’s skeptical of that, but wants to take her at her word. “Alright. Well, we can come over in the morning and help out.”

She mutters something that could be construed as _thank you_ but it’s still bleary and borderline incomprehensible. “Okay,” she yawns. “Well, I can tell I’m on speakerphone, so, hi Archie. Looking forward to seeing you again, long time no see, blah, blah, blah. Thanks again for the lowdown on Jug’s ancient Golden Girl-friend,” she adds, clearly meant to be mocking towards Jughead.

There’s a long moment wherein neither Betty nor Jughead say a word, just stare at one another, and JB seems to fill in the blanks. “She’s there, isn’t she,” she says vacantly, sighing wearily.

“Um, hi,” Betty says, in her sweetest voice.

He snorts despite the second-hand embarrassment. Or maybe it’s just first-hand. “Archie changed his mind, as was half-expected. You know him well enough to guess why. So I invited Betty instead,” he says.

“Oh,” JB says. Then, _“Oh.”_

“Yeah,” Jughead replies, for lack of anything else.

“That’s cool,” his sister says, sounding like she means it. “Okay, well I’m gonna go back to sleep. Text me in the morning. Can’t wait to see you Jug, and meet you, Betty.”

They share parting words and then he hangs up, looking over at Betty guiltily. “I told you she was a lot,” he sighs. “Sorry. She made a Betty White joke before and I think she was a little too proud of it. She does this really annoying thing where she thinks she’s funny.”

To her credit, Betty giggles. “It’s okay. I know I’m probably the only millennial willingly going by Betty in New York State.” She might not be wrong.

The rest of the drive carries on uneventfully, and he doesn’t realize how much he’s been carrying otherwise worries in his shoulders until they reach Illinois. She directs him onwards to their hotel, and it’s possibly through sheer determination of will alone they make it through the daze of exhaustion.

After parking and check in, they both collapse into bed, barely making time to change into their nightclothes or brush their teeth. “Never again,” he mutters, crawling under the sheets and immediately closing his eyes.

“We made it though,” she whispers next to him. “It was fun.”

Jughead opens one weary eye and looks at her through it. “Really,” she emphasizes. “I mean, it was a lot. I forgot how much corn there can be in one mile. But I had a good time with you.”

Whatever remnant moodiness about the state of Ohio floats away. “Yeah.” He exhales. “Same.”

“Goodnight, Juggie,” she adds, after another moment. She cuddles up against him in her now regular place as the little spoon, and he wastes no time pulling her as close as he can.

“Night, Betts.”

The lights flicker out.

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.

.

Morning greets him with the sound of rain.

He sits up in bed, disappointed to find it empty, and realizes it’s not rain at all—it’s the shower running through the open bathroom. There’s no point trying to go back sleep if Betty isn’t there to keep him company, and packing up his sister’s apartment today will likely be an exertion of muscles he hasn’t thought about in years, so he might as well get up.

Jughead trips over his shoes while rolling off the mattress, and it sends him careening into the wall with a _thud_. His toe takes most of the hit, throbbing painfully, and he curses loudly.

Then, a moment later, Betty’s voice floats through a curtain of ambient, drizzling water. “Juggie? Are you up? Are you okay?”

He glances over in the direction of the bathroom, cradling his foot. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just stubbed my toe,” he calls back.

She pauses. “Can you do me a favor? Come here, would you?”

With a palpable gulp that makes no sense considering how many times he’s already seen her naked, he walks towards the bathroom, glancing around the already ajar door. He keeps his eyes up, despite how much he would like to allow even the slightest dip. She’s pushing wet hair back from her face, smiling softly at him. “Do you see that bottle of hotel body wash on the counter? I forgot mine.”

He nearly trips again reaching for it, but manages through the task without twisting his ankle on the bathmat. He passes it through the cracked glass door and turns to go when he hears, “That wasn’t the favor.”

Jughead glances back, and this time doesn’t stop his eyes from roaming. It seems to please her, because her smile only grows. He realizes what she’s asking, and pulls his S t-shirt over his head with exorbitant haste. A moment later, and he’s joined her in the shower. The song of crackling warm water littering his skin may be louder than his heartbeat, but not by much.

And then she’s kissing him and pressing the bottle of body wash into his hands with clear intent. _It’s still here,_ he thinks, as he distributes the soap over her skin, deliberately avoiding her breasts until he knows she’ll be worked up enough to squirm for it.

There had been a moment before, where he’d wondered—not if the spark was gone, as the old adage goes, but whether part of what had made the sex so good was the almost desperate fervor in which they were trying to enjoy as much as they could while they could. He hadn’t made her come without use of his hands on the couch, and then they were too tired since, that he’d worried if they’d _needed_ the looming end to make the sex so beyond.

As if time, or rather, the absence of it, was the wisp of passion itself.

But as his hands slide across the smooth path of her back, lathering bubbles and letting the water wash them away, and she continues to kiss him, a driving thrum in the way her breath catches as his hands roll down—it’s once more relief he feels. The lust wasn’t burning on empty. Instead, he realizes it comes from somewhere much deeper; the locked room with the skeleton key and the lone window.

If she’ll let him, he wants nothing _but_ time with her, in a way that is almost unforeseeably endless. He opens the kiss, and hope is a light that moves across the windowpane.

She begins to writhe indiscriminately, and she grabs for his hands and moves them to her chest. The bottle of body wash clatters and rolls around their feet. He rubs circles of soap into her breasts, still standing under the spray, no longer louder than the heart in his ears or the escaping moans.

“Juggie,” she whines, need present in her voice. He neither has a condom nor considers himself enough of a gymnast to attempt what he’d like in a slippery shower, so instead he just drops to his knees, loops one leg of hers over his shoulder, and moves his kisses elsewhere.

She rocks against his mouth, one hand curling into his hair, the other supporting her balance. It’s as tender a coming as it is stuttering and untamed. He looks up at her as she does, unable to fathom how beautiful she looks.

A droplet of water rolls down her hip, and he catches it.

Eventually, his knees start to ache against the floor of the tub, and he stands, letting the shower wash her off his face. He grins down at her. “Juggie,” she whispers again, perhaps about to add something else. The flecks of green are growing bigger as her eyes return, and she trails off, as if unsure what to say.

Instead, she kisses his collarbone. And then his chest, and then his stomach, until she herself is lowered upon him. She takes him in her mouth, returning the favor with gusto, and if he were not watching her work, he would think this a dream.

He comes with a strangled _fuck_ that feels out of place amongst the pitter-patter of the shower and _clair-de-lune_ blue of the bathroom, but Betty holds him true. Slowly, she rises up, and they stare at one another. It brings him back to their first time, looking at each other with a loss for words. But if that sex had been under the pink of a setting sun, this was the other end of the sky.

Jughead kisses the corner of her mouth, and then her forehead. They stand together for a moment before Betty smiles bashfully at him and climbs out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her middle. He remains, shaking his head to himself, and rinses his hair with the hotel shampoo.

When he’s finished, he cuts off the water and picks up the little bottle of body wash that had rolled towards the drain. His hand curls around it, and with Betty’s back turned, places it in his bag.

.

.

.

Betty catches his eye in her reflection as she brushes out her still damp hair, grinning at him.

They’ve both been doing a lot of that lately.

He’s seen a lot of outfits from her and he’s liked them all, but he’d honestly thought none could outrank Beach Day Betty, in her form fitting cut offs and white swimsuit. That fucking swimsuit had been the beginning of the end for him, after all.

But Vacation Betty is worming its way to the top. He hasn’t actually seen her in a dress before, and it’s already setting a high bar. The dress is a warm yellow, and spotted with white flowers that remind him of the bouquet he got her last week. Mostly he enjoys the fact that it has buttons all the way down, but she’s left the top few undone. And with her hair drying loosely around her shoulders and her face soft, she looks relaxed. He likes that look most of all.

“Ready to go,” she chirps, as he finishes lacing up his sneakers.

“You look beautiful,” he tells her. Her lips tip up, eying his gray jeans and white tank appreciatively. As he’s pulling on a cuffed button up, she grabs a jacket from her bag, which he assures her she won’t need, but Practical Betty has reared her head. _What if there’s air-conditioning,_ she points out. _What if they’re out late?_

She reaches for his hand while he closes the hotel door and he doesn’t hesitate to lace them together. Glad that he hasn’t forgotten again, he texts JB that they’re on their way over as they head down the hallway.

“Are you excited to see your sister?” She asks, pressing the elevator button.

Jughead grins. “Yeah. It’s been a full year, actually. She decided to stay in Evanston rather than sublet last summer. Wonder how many more tattoos she’s gotten since.”

“You guys seem close,” Betty says as the elevator brings them all the way down to the garage.

He shrugs. “Kinda had to be. Tumultuous childhood, et al. For a while we were all each other had. She actually lived with me for her last years of high school,” he adds, deciding that if this comes up later, he’d rather she already know. “Our dad did sixty days in county jail for his second DUI, and the state noticed. There was no real other option but for me to become her legal guardian.”

Betty doesn’t say anything, and he realizes she’s looking at him. Her eyebrows are knotted. The elevator continues to lower. “How old were you?”

“Had just turned 21,” he sighs. She looks worried, which he appreciates, but is wholly unnecessary. “Hey. It’s in the past. It wasn’t the best timing, but we both came out of it fine.” The doors open and he tugs her into the garage. “C’mon.”

The short drive from Chicago-proper into the collegiate town of Evanston is filled by Jughead sharing his favorite sister stories; the time when she was six and didn’t like the color of one her shirts, found a black sharpie and spent nearly two hours trying to turn it black.

The time she threw open her bedroom door after he’d been pounding on it and begging her to stop blasting the song _Cherry Bomb_ so he could write an essay, and she’d yelled in his face that she wasn’t _Jellybean_ anymore, she was _JB_ , and she wouldn’t respond to anything else. The time he taught her drive the truck and she screamed at the top of her lungs while immediately trying to do donuts in the parking lot.

They’re both still laughing as they pull up to JB’s street. He puts the truck in park and shoots her a text that they’ve arrived, to which she promptly responds with an onslaught of exclamation marks and that they should buzz apartment five in case he forgot.

He follows her instructions and is greeted by a loud unlocking sound from the front gate and JB’s crackly voice saying she’ll be down in a minute.

And then his sister stands at the top of the stairs, her arms thrown out wide in greeting. “Hi!” She bellows in a singsong voice, her Doc Marten’s thundering down the steps.

Jughead begins to gesture for a hug, but instead, she sweeps right past him and embraces Betty, who makes a small _oomph_ sound in surprise. “Wow, so you’re the hot mechanic,” JB says, and really, he should almost be impressed his sister is _this_ adept at embarrassing him so quickly. He runs a hand down his face.

“I’m the—what?” Betty laughs, as JB straightens out her arms on Betty’s shoulders to look at her properly, taking in her baby blue jean jacket and floral dress and shiny blonde hair. In turn, he wonders how JB appears to Betty, as they couldn’t look more different. He’s always thought his sister was cool, especially as a ten year old with a penchant for Pink Floyd, but she definitely looks—well, _cooler_ since the last time he saw her.

She’s wearing a faded _Meat Is Murder_ t-shirt, vintage black cut offs, and the kind of clunky boots that only a Jones could suffer in the pre-summer humidity, looking every part the Patti Smith fangirl she was always meant to be. Not to mention the fact that her collection of tiny stick-and-pokes and intricate tattoos has indeed grown, and that’s just based on what he can see.

Finally, JB turns to Jughead, her loose, dark curls bouncing. He doesn’t move, and she puts her hands on her hips. “Well. Aren’t you going to hug me, big bro?”

“Hold on, I’m still scanning for intelligent life forms,” he drawls, but grins as she tugs him forward. After they separate, he gestures to Betty. “JB, this is Betty.” He wants to say _my girlfriend,_ but that’s a talk they haven’t yet had, and he’d rather do it when they’re alone, barring the fact that he’s unsure if it’s too soon anyway.

Even though his sister has already accosted her with a hug, Betty’s manners win out. She offers JB her hand, and they shake.

“It’s nice to meet you, officially. Sorry about the whole…Betty White joke, by the way,” JB says sheepishly.

Betty grins. “It’s okay. The amount of _pollyanna_ jokes I made growing up to my sister Polly means I can’t really be offended,” she replies, making JB throw her head back in laughter and nodding approvingly.

They all head up the stairs and into JB’s apartment. He dumps the extra duffle he’s schlepped all the way from Boston onto the floor and gapes around. It’s just as small as he remembers and relatively unchanged from the last time he was here—all save for the utter fucking  _mountain_ of chaos nicknamed U-haul.

“Jesus, JB,” he says, rubbing his forehead as he takes in the piles of clothes and cardboard boxes in various forms of undress. He uses his foot to move a book in his path out of the way. “You said you were gonna be packed by today.”

“And today’s not over, dillweed,” she huffs. “It’ll get done.”

“Yeah, by me, obviously,” he replies. He glances over at Betty, and can see her gears turning and making lists in her mind. _“You_ don’t have to do anything, this is your vacation,” he tells her, even though he suspects it’s useless. She has an almost excited gleam in her eye, which really shouldn’t surprise him. He’s _been_ in her house, after all.

She takes off her jean jacket and ties it around her waist with an emphatic tug, clearly ignoring him. “Let’s start in the bedroom.”

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Betty lays out a battle strategy at once.

The furniture is all staying with the next tenant, so they only need to tackle clothes, decorations, books, and records, though the latter two of which are sizably daunting on their own. Betty instructs that they’re going to start with keep and toss piles, and then pack everything in level order of priority. If the second or third round of her keep pile doesn’t fit in her boxes, it will be tossed, no exceptions. It has to all fit in the truck, after all. It’s efficient and such an obvious solution that even JB can’t find a reason to disagree.

“Christ, how many Winona Ryder posters does one person need?” He gripes, unpinning one that says _Wino Forever_ while pointing at another that’s a photograph of an early-90s Winona in a dark leather jacket and mom jeans.

“She’s my style _icon,”_ JB says, glaring at him. “Getting rid of these would be like me asking you to give up—wait, you’re not wearing the beanie.” She stops what she’s doing and stares at him. “Why aren’t you wearing the beanie?”

Jughead’s eyes dart towards Betty, who is doing her best to appear as though she’s not listening while packing up the record collection. He looks back at his sister, sighing. “I decided to make a change. I still have it. Just…I don’t know. It felt stupid to wear it in this heat.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” JB says, pinching her lips together as she studies him.

“No psychoanalysis before lunch, please,” he mutters, turning back to the posters at hand. He feels her watching him as he rolls one up and decides to force the subject back to the work. “Okay, you only have one packing tube for all these. So we’re going to play the priority game. Which one is your first choice?”

She sighs and points at the leather jacket one, an outfit he’s seen her replicate way more than once. In the end, she has to toss out the black-and-white photo of Winona at a gas station, but he assures her they’ll find a replacement back in Boston.

JB grumbles about it for a few minutes, but Betty’s system is obviously working and he almost can’t believe it. “So, once we’re done here, ideally sometime within the next millennia,” Jughead says, smirking at his sister’s glare, “I was thinking we could do some sight-seeing. Touch the Bean, or whatever it is you guys do here in the Second City.”

There’s a jeer across the room from JB as she starts filtering through her many vintage band t-shirts. “Okay, that’ll take you two minutes. You have to have more of a plan than just the Bean. Want recommendations?”

“No way,” he scoffs immediately. Both JB and Betty look over at him, but he ignores his sister. “Betty, unless you like dive bars that don’t card with really terrible Talking Heads cover bands or bad Thai food, we’re not listening to anything she suggests.”

“Aw, he’s still mad about the time I tricked him into coming to a karaoke night,” JB says to Betty, who appears to grin at the mental image. In response, he forcefully shoves JB’s copy of bell hook’s _All About Love_ into a box out of spite.

“What’d you sing, Juggie?” She asks, in that purposeful voice of innocence.

“Yeah, _Juggie,_ tell her,” JB repeats, snickering.

“Nothing,” he snorts, “no matter how much she and Archie begged. Of course, he sang _Don’t Stop Believin’_ , if you can fucking _believin’_ it. Archie is like a Cabinet of Curiosities for the working class soul search. His other go-to’s are Springsteen and Billy Joel, respectively.”

“How _is_ my boyfriend doing?” JB pipes up, as she inspects two shirts. She puts the infinitely more shredded and worn one into a keep box, and the other newer shirt into the toss pile. “I’m still kinda bummed he bailed. Not that you aren’t the Patron Saint of Organization, Betty, and I’m very happy you’re here,” she adds quickly.

Betty and Jughead exchange glances. He doesn’t really want to get into this, mostly because he’s hoping by the time he gets back to Boston this will all have blown over and they can mutually agree to suppress their emotions again. Hell, he still hasn’t even explained the root of the fight to _Betty_ yet.

But JB catches the suspicious looks between them and he has a rule: he doesn’t keep secrets from his sister. It drove Jughead up all kinds of walls when their father did that to him, and he’d promised he wouldn’t repeat history.

“Uh, we kind of got in a fight,” he says hesitantly. JB’s brow furrows. “It’s not a big deal. We’ve always had some fundamentally different world-views, and it just finally came to a head.”

“Gee, Jug, it would be so frustrating if you were being deliberately vague,” JB says dryly.

He pauses, unsure how to explain in front of Betty that the real cause of their fight was essentially telling Archie he thought was being an idiot to make a romantic gesture. Because the truth is, he thinks he understands where Archie was coming from now. Not that he’s about to move to Riverdale for Betty, still maintaining that would be _nuts,_ but that he could…see himself doing it down the line.

He has never comprehended why Archie did the reckless things he did in front of and in quest for women, no matter how hard Jughead tried. He squinted at it, mapped out the logic in his head, but could never pinpoint the justification for all the impulsivity—until now, because he’s already done it. He’d all but begged at her to come with him to Chicago, after all.

But he’s not sure he’s ready to swallow his pride just yet, so instead he shrugs. JB narrows her eyes at him shrewdly, four years worth of psychological training and studying body language clearly at work.

She makes a noise of distrust, but finally turns her attention back on her t-shirt packing. “Well, I have some things to take care off tomorrow. Donate all the stuff I’m tossing. Spend time with the last vestige of my college friends, etcetera. But I can take you around the city on Monday, or at least we should get dinner then. Somewhere nice. I’ll find a place.”

Jughead watches her, oddly focused on her task at hand. “Yeah, sounds great,” he says, and Betty nods in turn.

The late morning stretches into afternoon, marked by Jughead’s insistence on pizza for lunch and JB’s huffing that she’s _a vegan now and he better get used to it._ Betty intervenes, suggesting Italian, so that they all can get what they want, and uses JB’s computer to order delivery.

Lunch brings a well-earned break, and by the time four o’clock rolls around, they’re actually almost done. His sister tapes up the last clothing box as Jughead flops onto the couch. “Fuck, this is lumpy. You were gonna let me sleep on this thing?”

JB smirks at him, and then stops Betty from starting to clean up the remnants of lunch into black garbage bags. “No, I can finish up. Seriously, you guys have done more than enough. Honestly Jug, you’re never allowed to break up with her.”

Locking eyes with Betty across the room, he doesn’t think that’ll be a problem.

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.

They head out about an hour later, agreeing to touch base tomorrow but not planning on seeing JB until Monday. She has already written out a list of the things they should do while in town but that she herself doesn’t want to, which Betty accepts when he gripes about it.

JB walks them out and spends a long moment fondly eying the truck and quietly thanking Betty for saving it, her voice so soft that Jughead can’t bring himself to tease her. They bid her goodbye and roll off for the hotel, not saying much but for the filtering playlist of wistful Carly Simon that Betty has put on. It’s been another long day, and he thinks he’s still catching up from yesterday’s amount of driving.

Back in the room, he checks the emails from Friday he didn’t read while Betty settles into the pillow beside him with a book, scribbling notes in the margin of the pages for what she says is for her own enjoyment. “Nerd,” he teases, kissing her shoulder before returning to his laptop.

His smile turns inside out as he reads his latest message from his editor. He exhales loudly, making Betty glance over at him. “’JP,’” he reads, “’this just isn’t selling. It feels rushed. Consider scrapping love plot? You didn’t need it in the first one.’” He meets her eye. “Do you think she’s right?”

“Let me read the new stuff,” she offers, plucking the computer out of his arms just after he’s pulled up his Word document. “I’ll be honest.”

Jughead sighs, reaching for the book on his nightstand to try to busy himself with while she catches up on the added chapters.

She puts the pen between her teeth, even as she edits on his computer, like perhaps it’s an unconscious force of habit. He tries to focus on his book, but after more than an hour’s ticked by without much success, he gives up.

Instead he runs his eyes along the curl of her jaw all the way down to her neck. He’s always liked that part of her; the graceful swan-like arch where her thoughts begin to manifest in her shoulders.

Jughead glances up, and realizes she’s watching him. “What? That bad?” He asks, half-jokingly.

She pulls the pen out and smiles at him. “No, no, I don’t agree with your editor at all. I really like it. But…” She sucks in a breath, almost nervously. “I think I know what the problem is. You have the love confessions feeling like announcements rather than revelations. The reader learns it at the same time as the character hears it out loud.”

His heart may have honestly stopped at this moment. She continues, with a hint of a blush, “It’s like…I think the psychologist Michael Balint said something to the effect of how western languages lack simple definitions between active love and passive love. It’s all encompassed by the _one_ word: love, even though it’s always such a complex, unique set of circumstances and emotions. But that’s beautiful, right?”

She looks at him, her eyes clear. “How it makes it all harder to define? But as a writer, you can explore it more poignantly through _showing_ the way love appears over time, rather than just announcing it for your characters. You have them skipping too many steps and aren’t building the realization enough.”

“’Active love and passive love’?” He repeats, his face wrinkling with a grin.

Betty re-crosses her legs on the bed and puts the computer aside. “I think of it like…we as a society put a lot of weight on this kind of epic, dramatic romance. Which is great, if you’re in a war movie. That’s active love. But I think there’s more power in the kind of love that’s just there because it wants to be, not because the situation demands it. Passively, you know. If that makes sense?”

He stares at her.

It does make sense. A lot of sense.

Just like a revelation, it clicks in his head. The way he thinks she’s a beautiful genius, because no one has ever explained love to him like she has; both with her words and his own actions, the way his body tells him what to do when he’s around her. The way she is so giving and kind in a way that is unyieldingly genuine, never doing the things she does because she wants something in return, but just because she cares.

The way he’s never been ready to say goodbye, probably from the very beginning. The way he holds her at night. The way they have sex with a softness and a reverence that he’s fairly sure is reserved for a specific kind of ancient intimacy.

The feeling in his chest when she and JB met, even the one when she’d just pulled his laptop forward and begun making those edits for him. It was just there. That one song, that vibrating string, that plucking in his heart; there because it wanted to be.

And Jughead realizes it, even though it’s not raining, they’re not anywhere remotely romantic, nor is this even a moment for a swelling musical score.

Rather: her hair swept up in a loose bun, her smile soft. She is sitting in the plainest, least meaningful type of transient hotel room, with the vaguest chairs and the least profound abstract art—but she makes the space mean everything to him just by being here. The color in the paintings feels warmer, the furniture feels homier, and she is so beautiful in the blue drawl of dusk.

He hears the song in his heart once more; he recognizes it this time. He knows it now. Realizes he has known it for a while.

He’s in love with her.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was fluffy as hell, but i think you guys earned it for putting up with me this long. especially since the consensus in the last round of reviews was that i was basically torturing you all, for which i do apologize. but i actually wrote that last scene a while ago and have been really excited to get to this point, so i'm glad we're finally here! 
> 
> JB def took over this chapter a bit, but it was a really fun challenge taking those two sentences we have about her and turning it into a whole character. props to the show writers for saying so much with so little. 
> 
> i also have to take a minute to express how happy i am that in the last chapter, everyone who mentioned betty's choice said they were glad she was because she was doing something for _herself._ that was so important to me---that this was a moment and a leap to take with another person, but _for_ herself. so that made my week, tbh. thanks guys.
> 
> anyway, listening playlist: _please, please, please let me have what i want_ by The Smiths, and _anticipation_ by Carly Simon. but honestly i listened to an extended version of _clair de lune_ by Debussy for like three hours straight writing this.
> 
> lyrics at the top is a poem from Sean Nicholas Savage's album cover _magnificent fist_ , which is a thing of beauty. his genre is very hard to describe, but it's oft mournful and lovely. not for everyone, probably, but check it out. 
> 
> and did y'all see the new bughead bts pic?? working on a car engine together?? i about lost it. hold me, please
> 
> one day my author's notes won't be so ridiculously long, but--once again, thanks so much for the warm response. i'm such a happy wreck reading your reviews, i can't express it without sounding dramatic, but really...it means so, so much to me. please drop me another one and let me know how you felt about this chapter!


	16. Chapter 16

 

_Lightning strikes maybe once, maybe twice_

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Afterwards, Jughead types up a few ideas into an outline as she returns to her book, but out of the corner of her eye she watches his fingers hesitate over the keys several times. At first it seems like he’s ruminating over his words, but whenever Betty looks over, she realizes his attention is on her.

Once, she catches the thought moving, whatever it is. His eyes, so soft and so blue, trace the lines of her face before shifting forward to press his lips to hers. He doesn’t linger, but the kiss does, tingling slightly.

“What was that for?” She asks lightly, smiling at him.

He shrugs, but he’s smiling widely, almost boyishly. “Felt like it,” he says. “Why? Do I need a reason?”

“No,” she says and then he’s putting the laptop onto the nightstand and whispering _good_ and crawling closer. He kisses her again, tugging the bottom of her lip with his teeth and grinning against her mouth as she opens for him.

It’s slow, kissing languidly in the low light of a hotel room, but there’s something different about the way he’s moving against her. More intentional, maybe, or with a force of portmanteau, like a pair of thoughts fused together that she cannot define.

He pulls back to look her in the eye. “I’m really glad I met you,” he says, even if it sounds like something more. She kisses him again in agreement, but he doesn’t let it last long, as he shifts to pepper his lips against other areas of visible skin.

“Let me show you,” he murmurs against her stomach, and then he’s sliding all the way down and meeting her eyes for permission to tug off her pajama shorts.

She nods, and then he’s pulling her clothes off, pressing his lips against the inside of her thigh. Betty had underestimated how worked up she already was, because by the time his tongue meets her clit, she feels halfway to an orgasm. It doesn’t take long for her to come, but he holds her through it and keeps going.

After the second one, she feels sated, but in a way that doesn’t do the word justice. She starts to move forward, to offer something in turn, but Jughead just shakes his head and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he sits upright. “That was for you,” he says softly.

Betty blinks, briefly worried it’s a rejection before realizing it’s the total opposite. Truthfully, two orgasms coupled with the long day of packing and organizing they’ve had has brought on a sheet of sleepiness, so she doesn’t argue with him. He rolls off the bed and tells her he’s going to take a quick shower—she suspects it’s partially to take care of his own erection—and slips off to the bathroom.

She forces herself to her suitcase for a clean pair of underwear, but doesn’t bother putting back on her little pajama shorts before she slips back under the covers.

Despite being physically exhausted in the best kind of way, there’s a working thought in her mind that won’t let her rest. Perhaps it was all the language of love shared between them tonight, both in her literal definitions of the word and maybe even in the way he kissed her afterwards.

But she’s too tired to really explore that thought, despite its best efforts to keep her up. She’s almost out when she feels the bed dip with Jughead’s body, damp and warm from the shower.

He whispers something delicate as he settles in beside her, thinking she’s already asleep.

In the morning, she won’t remember what it was.

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When they wake, Jughead begs her for at least one lazy day, so she fights her instincts to start planning a full Sunday schedule and indulges both of them in snuggling back under the covers.

After all, she thinks she might deserve it. Things have been so fast and intense lately, and not just between them. Betty already felt like she was going zero to sixty the past few months, but once Jughead came into her life, it was like everything became brightened and heightened. Particularly as a spotlight onto the parts about her life that were causing her stress—the day-to-day of the garage, her on-call babysitting, Riverdale in general.

Not that it it’s his fault, or anything he did deliberately, but the past couple days have been like waking up from some kind of long, hazy purgatory. So maybe she needs a break. One she tells herself she’s earned, even as she second-guesses herself. But then Jughead pulls her close, already nearly back to sleep, and she lets the worrying thought go.

They finally get out of bed just before noon, as Jughead’s warring with his stomach and his laziness comes to a head. Betty finds a cute brunch spot on his computer, already dressed in a simple white t-shirt and her favorite pair of old, fraying cut offs that she normally doesn’t wear anywhere but the beach or doing chores, for fear of judgment under her mother’s pointed eye.

While Jughead brushes his teeth and finds some clean clothes, her phone buzzes with the alert of another text. She reaches for it with a sigh, deciding she can’t put this off forever. There are about a dozen cumulative calls from her mother and sister, as well as several text notifications, but when she opens up her messages, she just responds to the ones from Cheryl and Veronica.

To Cheryl, she asks about her date and to Veronica, she replies that she is indeed alive and fine, that she just needed a breather and will be back in town next week. She feels a bit guilty about ignoring her family, but that’s just not a conversation she can have this close to wakening.

Neither feel much like dealing with parking in an unfamiliar city, so they head out and find the nearest L station. Betty has directions to the restaurant on her phone, but she studies the transit map anyway and confirms their route.

The neighborhood they land in is called Wicker Park, which JB had scribbled onto her list of recommendations as hip and cute. Jughead makes a comment about the amount of vegan restaurants they pass, figures this is why JB likes it so much, and even makes Betty promise she’s not bringing him to a vegan place when all he wants in the world is meat.

She swears to him it’s not, but when they reach the restaurant he still looks a little relieved. They’re seated relatively quickly, as Betty had researched the place with the best food for the best wait time, and her phone rings just as they’ve finished placing their orders.

“It’s Polly,” she sighs, biting her lip. “I should probably take it.”

“Go. The food won’t be here for a while,” he murmurs, gesturing with his head towards the door. She nods and then slips outside the restaurant to take the call.

“Hey Pol,” she says, finding a bench under a tree down the street. She tries to sound normal but can easily hear the hesitancy in her own voice.

 _“’Hey Pol’?”_ Polly repeats, shocked. “Betty, I’ve been trying to call you for two days! What happened on Friday? Where are you? Mom says you won’t pick up for her either and haven’t been home all weekend! Cheryl is claiming you’re in Chicago, which is so random it’s almost believable, especially since I went over to the garage yesterday and Joaquin said you hadn’t closed up normally? If you hadn’t been texting Cheryl, I would’ve thought you were dead!”

“Yeah, I am in Chicago,” Betty says after a long pause. Playing dumb only ever worked with their father, so there’s no point in not being honest with her sister. “I left with Jughead on Friday night.”

Polly doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Well, it’s not like I’m Mom, you could’ve told me. I’m always on your side, remember? I get not taking her calls, but why have you been ignoring _me?”_

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “The Famous Cooper Tunnel Vision was at play, or something. I didn’t want to deal with the truth.”

“The truth? What’s going on here, Betty?”

She takes a steadying inhale. “It’s just, you’ve kind of been treating me like your nanny,” she says, all in one breath as to not lose her nerve. “I mean, you haven’t hired a new one in months and sometimes I feel like it’s because I’m around. It finally…got to me.”

“What?” Polly says over the phone, definitely shocked now. “I haven’t—okay, there have been a _couple_ times—” She cuts herself off, as if thinking. “Oh my god. You’re right. Oh my god! I’m so sorry, Betty! Oh my god, I _am_ Mom, steamrolling all over you! Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

She allows her sister to have a few more moments of identity crisis before answering. “I don’t know,” she says again. “I’ve been so tightly wrapped up lately, but I just kept telling myself everything was fine. Over and over. And I knew if I admitted that even _one_ thing wasn’t fine, then the rest would all fall to pieces too.”

“The rest?”

“The garage, living with mom, and…just in Riverdale too, sometimes,” Betty sighs.

Her sister pauses. “I didn’t know you were that unhappy,” she says quietly.

“No!” Betty says quickly, not wanting Polly to jump to the worst conclusion. “No, it’s not…not that simple. I _like_ living close to my family, and there’s a lot to be grateful for. It’s not that I’m completely unhappy, really. I wish I was, because then I would know what to do.”

Polly waits for her to continue, so she does, “It feels more like…more like I’m, I don’t know, unsatisfied. I like mechanics, I do, but I want there to be more _meaning_ in what I’m doing, or at least feel like I’m doing it for me, not because it’s what people expect of me.”

“You mean like going back to publishing?”

“I think so. I’ve been helping Jughead with his novel lately and it just made realize how much I missed it all.” Now that she’s said it out loud, she knows this is the truth, and one she won’t be able to avoid forever. There’s a brief intermission for Betty to find the next confession. “I saw Adam Chisholm not long ago. He and his dad want to buy the garage.”

“Wow,” Polly says, absorbing this. “What’d you say?”

“I told him I’d think about it,” Betty sighs. “But I don’t know, doesn’t that feel like…selling off Dad’s memory?”

“Not to me. But I never had the same connection to the garage that you do. I was never very good with all the mechanic stuff,” she replies. “Whatever you want, I’ll support you. I can even sell the Chisholm’s my share if it would help lighten your load.”

“Maybe,” Betty says thoughtfully. It still feels like a betrayal of memory, somehow.

“You’re too loyal,” Polly sighs fondly. “It’s always been what I admired most about you. But I think it holds you back sometimes. Our greatest strength is usually our greatest weakness, you know. And Betty, if you want to move on from the garage, I promise Dad won’t hold it against you from the grave.”

Betty doesn’t know what to say, which means it’s probably true. Eventually Polly fills the silence. “Just let me know what you decide. You should definitely move out of the house though. I don’t think it’s helping for you to be there with Mom all the time.”

“This isn’t _Grey Gardens,_ Polly, relax,” she sighs. “Mom’s barely even there now. And when she’s home, I’m at the garage. It works out. She’s been different since Dad died, anyway. Less…involved with my life. You know that.”

“I guess. It’s just—can’t you move into Veronica’s place, or something? Isn’t it going on the market? Why can’t she just rent it to you instead?”

“She offered,” Betty admits. “But if I moved in there, I’m worried I’d get too comfortable again. Keeping myself just a little bit miserable is the only defense mechanism I have sometimes,” she adds, in a wry tone.

Polly huffs over the line. “I don’t like hearing you talk like that. I want you to actually be _happy,_ not using your anxiety to keep you on your toes.”

Betty doesn’t have an answer to that. Her sister is probably right, but it doesn’t bring her any closer to a solution. “I should probably go,” she says instead. “I stepped outside from brunch with Jughead and if our food hasn’t arrived yet, it will soon.”

“Of course,” Polly replies, like she wants to say something else. “But—so, this is serious? With this guy Jughead?”

“I think so,” she says, unsure how to label what’s between them, let alone explain to a third party how Betty already feels as though she’s known him her whole life and can’t imagine it without him now.

Her sister makes an approving but vague sound, and then makes her goodbyes, promising once more that when she hangs up, she will start looking for a new nanny. When Betty gets off the phone and goes back into the restaurant, Jughead is staring at his food mournfully, clearly having waited for her.

Somehow, it speaks volumes. “You didn’t have to do that,” she says softly, slipping into her seat. “Sorry that took so long.”

“It’s okay,” he assures her, even as he digs into his corn beef hash with fervor. “How’d it go?”

“Good,” Betty declares, and it’s the truth. The old maxim about a burden on the shoulders is a clichéd one, but as she reflects on the conversation, decides it’s accurate. While all of her problems are far from solved, she does feel better.

It’s a start, at least.

.

.

.

The rest of Sunday is essentially a sprawling walk, as Jughead insists they should continue to have a day without plans and Betty is curious to try it. She finds she enjoys it; aimlessly wandering and exploring neighborhoods with Jughead is just as relaxing as he promised it would be. 

They have a particularly good time at a bookstore wherein she teases him by putting all of the copies she can find of his book onto the front display, which earns her a glare from an employee but is worth it for the spark of amusement in Jughead’s eye.

JB has texted Jughead saying she’s free in the afternoon on Monday, and that they should go to the art museum to start and then they’ll figure out something else to do before dinner. It sounds good to both of them, and don’t hear from her for the rest of the day.

“I really like her, by the way,” Betty says, when she comes up on the walk back to their hotel.

He scoffs. “You like her now. Just wait till you’re visiting me and she’s blasting Metallica while we’re trying to have sex.”

Betty laughs at that, because as someone who personally packed up JB’s record collection, she knows JB has the means. Most of the anthologies she owned was a shrine to the female rockers of the 80s, but there was a range of genres, including metal, and thinks she understands JB enough to know this is a warning that could come to fruition.

“Still,” Betty says. “She’s very cool.”

“She always has been,” Jughead muses fondly, looking pleased at the reminder that the two got along. “I’ve got a couple mix tapes she made somewhere in my glove box. Like, actual _tapes_ , because I refused to upgrade the stereo for an aux cord for so long. We can listen to them on the drive back.”

But Betty doesn’t want to think about _back_ yet. _Back_ is the place that asks questions she doesn’t have the answer to. Instead, she kisses him to distract the thought.

It doesn’t really work.

.

.

.

On Monday, after another slow morning and a breakfast of coffee and pastries, they make their way to Millennium Park to see the Bean before meeting up with JB, though Betty corrects him when he calls it that, having read up on it last night and learned it was technically named Cloud Gate.

The art museum is a couple blocks away from the park, but they underestimate how close it is to their hotel and arrive way too early. There’s a loose crowd surrounding the square with the sculpture, a shining, silver, and aptly nicknamed piece of art.

They stand beneath the chrome mirror of the bean-shaped monument, staring at their vaguely fun-house reflections. Jughead bends his knees in order to rise up and down, watching the warped version of himself do the same.

After a few seconds of this, he shrugs. “Okay, JB was right, this is boring. Now what?”

“Don’t be so negative, it’s a beautiful piece of art,” Betty admonishes lightly.

Jughead frowns anyway. “Isn’t this by the same guy who tried to _copyright_ the color black?”

“You’re just jealous someone beat you to the punch,” she teases, running her eyes over his monochromatic outfit and pulling out her phone. There’s another text from Veronica, but she goes straight to the camera app. “Let’s take a photo.”

“Good, I don’t want to forget this monumental experience,” he drawls, but grinning all the same as he sidles up against her and takes her phone for the selfie. “Here, my arms are longer.”

She buries her head in the crook of his neck and beams at the camera; his is more of a smirk than anything, but his eyes are folded with something genuinely soft. Betty looks down at the photo as he hands the phone back to her. They look happy. They _are_ happy, she thinks.

The thrill of reaching for his hand hasn’t quite abided yet, so she does so without questioning it. He checks his own phone for the time. “Okay, we have about another hour before we have to meet JB. What do you want to do till then?”

“Let’s walk to Crown Fountain. They have these really big LED screens with moving faces on them, and it’s supposed to be really cool,” she suggests, and he nods, letting her lead them back towards the greenery. As they wander aimlessly amongst the crowds—mostly families, kids out of school already, and tourists like themselves. Jughead scoffs at another couple taking a selfie, much to her amusement.

“Juggie, that was _literally_ just us,” she says, tutting.

“They’re using a _selfie stick_ , Betts,” he replies without missing a beat, his lip curled towards the offending object. “If you ever see me using one of those, take it from me and beat me to death with it. Put me out of my misery.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she laughs. “God forbid you do something mainstream.”

“Once a special snowflake, always a special snowflake,” he chimes. “So, I was thinking about the rest of the afternoon. While we’re in Chicago, I feel like it’s a human necessity to consume as much deep-dish pizza as biologically possible. Therefore, I propose we do a compare and contrast taste test of the top five on Yelp. Plus, JB would hate it, so it’s ideal for sibling revelry-slash-rivalry.”

“Oh great, my boyfriend is a food blogger,” she sighs, rolling her eyes, and then as Jughead comes to a dead halt, realizes what she just said. Terror and embarrassment fill her. “Oh my god, I’m sorry, that just slipped out, I—”

“No! Don’t apologize,” He says quickly, resuming walking and tugging her back into step as well. A smile twitches hopefully at his lips. “I just…was surprised.”

Her eyes dart down their feet, and then onto their hands, still joined. Now that she’s said it out loud, she realizes that’s just what she wants: for him to be her boyfriend. He nudges her until she meets his eye again.

“I’m very okay with the label, for the record,” he says, releasing a long breath.

“Really?” She asks it softly, more out of insecurity than surprise.

If she were to think about it hard, she knows that with anyone else, this would feel sudden. But there’s something about Jughead that defies the span of how long they’ve really known one another; perhaps it’s all the steps they skipped, but she can’t find a reason to justify _not_ wanting to label what they are.

“Yeah,” he assures her, squeezing her hand. “I mean…yeah.”

“Eloquent as always, Mr. Steinbeck,” she says.

“Shut up,” he huffs, chuckling anyway. “This is new to me. I’ve never been someone’s boyfriend before. Go easy on me.”

Privately, she reflects on the time they’ve spent together and thinks he’s been acting like her boyfriend for a while now. But it also makes her think of something else—a thought she’s been avoiding. She likes teasing him about his inability to use his words despite his profession as a writer, but there’s also a churning undercurrent to that fact, one she’s only vaguely considered before.

Like, why hadn’t he said anything to her? Especially if he _wants_  to be her boyfriend; she doesn’t understand why he worked so against his own wishes. He’d been about to _leave_ —if she hadn’t been the one to bring it up, would he have ever?

They’ve reached their destination, with a sizeable reflecting pool as a standing fountain, and dog-eared between two large towers covered in video close-ups of winking and smiling faces. Children splash through the water; Betty watches a teenager wiggle a foot through the blasting sprays of the fountain. She tries to appreciate the beauty of the interactive space, but it’s a lost attempt.

“What?” He asks, clearly glomming onto the worries etched into her face.

If she were a wiser person, she would find a way to bring this up tactfully. But she’s never been very good with subtlety.

“Juggie, why didn’t you say anything, back in Riverdale? If you didn’t want to just be hooking up, why did you go along with it? I mean, you were about to leave town, for good. If I hadn’t said anything…would you just have driven off?”

He sighs, glancing up at the sky. “There’s no way to know for sure,” he says slowly, clearly trying to be honest. He meets her eye. “But I think I would’ve gotten about a mile before I turned back around. I don’t think I could’ve ever walked away from you, not really. Or driven, if we’re being technical.”

Betty tries to smile, tries to feel relieved, but the thought is still nagging at her. “Look, we were both guilty of hiding behind miscommunication, and we had reasons that probably won’t go away overnight. I know that I have a tendency to settle, and I’m trying to unlearn that. But if we’re going to be together, and especially if we’re not always _physically_ going to be together, with you in Boston and me in Riverdale, we have to talk to each other.”

Jughead nods slowly, a thoughtfully somber expression appearing at his brow. “Yeah,” he agrees softly. “I’m not great at it, but I won’t sabotage myself deliberately. I want to do this—us—right, I just have a history of not always talking about things when I should. But I want to change that.”

“I know, Juggie. I know you will. I just didn’t initially realize it was so hard for you. I mean, you’re a _writer,_ _”_ she says, with fond exasperation. Logic says that it should be a lot easier for him than the average person, and yet, she herself has noticed the way he stumbles through the truth sometimes.

“Yeah, I’m a writer _because_ of that,” he says, frowning.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a long story.” He scratches behind his ear and gathers a bracing breath. “I don’t know if it’s run-of-the-mill trauma that started the trend, or if it’s just my personality, but I’ve just never been good talking about things. Literally. I get nervous and mumbly. I mean, you should never come to a book reading of mine. They’re awful.”

“Don’t change the subject,” she says tenderly, because she’s realized that whereas she clings to denial, he has a habit of deflection.

He looks over at her with resignation, and nods.

“I got into writing because I couldn’t find another way to talk about myself. I figured that out when I was fifteen, after I started going to Al-Anon meetings. JB was too young then, and didn’t start going till she was that age too, but it’d been her idea. She’d been sent to the guidance counselor and was in her vaguely delinquent phase, so pocketed a few pamphlets for the hell of it. The Al-Anon packet was one of them.”

Betty tilts her head, not sure what that is. “Al-Anon?”

“It’s like AA, only it’s for the friends and families of alcoholics, or sometimes addicts,” he explains. “Basically, it’s free group therapy. You meet once a week and everyone talks, but only if they want to. JB really wanted me to try it; foreshadowing of her later interests, I guess. It sounded kind of preachy to me initially, so I didn’t want to go. But JB kept pushing me about it, and when I finally went, it was actually all right. In the end, I kind of owe everything to it.”

“How so?” Betty asks, re-lacing their fingers in order to hold his hand more firmly as they wander the perimeter of the fountain. He passes her a wistful kind of smile.

“My group leader was this old Southie type. Scruffy beard, wore head-to-toe Carhartt, always smelled like a fucking smokestack. In a lot of ways, we were nothing alike. But he was the oldest kid in this big family and both his parents were drinkers, so it’d fallen on him to basically raise his siblings.”

“Like you and JB,” she supplies.

“Yeah. I mean, but it was just she and I. This guy—Jack—he had four siblings. But he came out of it okay, and…I met him at a time where I’d been worried I wouldn’t,” Jughead sighs, his face stony. There seems to be more of a story there, and he inhales as he gets ready to share it.

His eyes flick off, watching a little toddler splashing through the fountain.

“When I first started going to the meetings, I thought they were stupid. I was an angry, weird kid, and so up my own ass, thinking I was somehow the only person to ever go through the shit I did. I thought no one was going to understand me, but…I almost didn’t want them to. I mean, I was never special. I was under the radar. My grades were average. I sat in the back of my classes, had one friend—Archie—and the only times I opened my mouth was to be an asshole. Not that things have changed much,” he adds, with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Juggie, you’re n—” Betty starts, but he shakes his head, clearly touched and slightly amused at the defense on his behalf blooming in her thoughts.

He guides them down onto a concrete set of park steps, dropping her hand so he can wrap his arms around his knees. “I’m not done, Betty,” he says, grinning at her.

“Right,” she says, in a half-breath. “Sorry. Continue.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he passes her one last glance before returning to the movie in his mind. He tugs his knees closer. “In a sick way, my dad’s drinking problems and my mom leaving us—it made me feel special. Like I was stronger, like it made me smarter, or understand things other kids my age didn’t. And maybe that’s true, but in retrospect, it also sucked. They don’t tell you being a loner is so lonely,” he says, grinning mirthlessly.

“Anyway, the meetings just made me _mad_. Hearing all these other sob stories—some had it better than me, some were off way worse—made me realize I wasn’t special at all. And it was the only thing I had, fucked up as it was. It pissed me off. Like, why couldn’t I have _one_ thing?”

He sighs. “I skipped a couple meetings after that, but JB found out. She wanted me to give it another try; even brought out the waterworks, which I’m pretty sure were fake. But our dad lied to us so often that we made a pact that we wouldn’t do it to each other, so when I said I’d go, I did.”

“The first couple back I got away with the usual sulky _modus operandi._ Not everyone is a regular. But when I’d been going consistently again and still not speaking, the group leader, Jack, pulled me aside one day. He just wanted to check in with me. Said he’d been noticing me, asked me if I was okay, and wondered if it was the group setting that was making it hard for me to talk, if he could refer me to something else that was one-on-one.”

Betty’s heart breaks for him. She knows if she says anything close to this right now, he’ll just shake his head at her and assure her it was in the past, but nevertheless, she wonders how much anything like this can really stay there.

Instead, she shuffles closer to him on the concrete steps, and folds her hands over the ones wrapped around his knees.

Jughead’s eyes linger on the movement, smiling faintly, in a way that holds a secret. Then he continues, “At first I said no. I said I was there because my sister asked me to be, and that was it. But at the same time…” He trails off, closing his eyes. “I’d been waiting for someone to ask me if I was okay my whole life.”

“Oh, Juggie,” she says sadly, before she can stop herself.

He chuckles darkly, looking over at her with heavy-set eyes. “Betts, it was a long time ago,” he says, just as she expected him to.

Betty’s eyes threaten to water at the image of him, barely a teenager, stuck between childhood and the interim before adulthood, lanky and growing too fast in all kinds of ways, feeling so alone. She never wants him to feel alone again; she wants to make sure of it. Her hand snakes up to his jaw, cupping it in place so that he holds her gaze.

Around them, children are still laughing with delight as they sprint through the jumping fountains of water. The giant faces on the monitors smile down gently at them; one purses his lips into an o shape and a spigot of water appears to be tapping out of it. Like guardian angels with a sense of humor.

She nearly wishes they were alone, but then thinks better of it, deciding there’s something more intimate about a private moment in a public place, as if it makes their closeness much more of a choice.

Jughead catches the hand cradling his face, and twists his head in order to press a long kiss into her palm in unspoken thanks. They sit like that for a thrumming moment, a heat passing over her. It’s not desire, she realizes dimly, but something else. Something one word couldn’t capture.

After what feels like hours, he draws her hand back to its original spot over his own. “Anyway,” he breathes, almost halfway a laugh, “where was I?”

“Jack had asked if you were okay,” Betty summarizes, and he nods thoughtfully.

“Right. Well…I ended up blurting out something to the effect of _no,_ I wasn’t okay, but I didn’t know how to talk about it. Which was the truth; part of the reason I stuck to the shadows was because I’ve never been good at talking about my shit. But I’ll never forget what Jack said next, because it was the last thing in the world I expected to come out of this thick-ass Boston accent: he said I should try _roman à clef.”_

Betty laughs, her mouth falling open. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, apparently Jack was a real Hemingway fan. He said cathartic fiction based on real life worked for _The Sun Also Rises,_ that I should try writing down some of my thoughts through another character. Make it personal, but abstract. And I was so surprised I couldn’t really argue with him, so that night I went home, and I just…did it. I didn’t sleep, but I wrote it all down. My life, my dad, my mom, my sister; everything I’d never been able to say out loud, I realized…I could write it.”

With a chuckle, he adds, “Not very well, but it clicked in me. Helped me work through a lot of my anger. Gave me some focus, an outlet. Brought my grades up. Started talking at the meetings. Not much, but I did it. Having all my thoughts reflected back to me on a screen made me feel less…controlled by them. In college I kind of kicked the habit, developed some characters that didn’t also wear crowned beanies everyday, and tried a couple different genres out.”

He pauses. “I still catch myself in what I’m writing, even now, but Jack was right; it’s cathartic. I mean, my dad definitely isn’t a secret murderer like in the novel, but it wasn’t subconscious to make my character’s father the killer in the first book. Especially because his reasons were valid in his mind, it felt like the obvious solution.”

Betty bites her lip. He’s mentioned this before, on the eve of her panic attack last week. _Art imitating life,_ he’d said.

Art imitating life. She thinks about the love confessions blinking at her from out of a computer screen, the similarities she’s noticed between their story and the one he’s writing. Even the heroine in the book—they’re definitely not the same person, he’s obviously created his own character, but occasionally, some things will jump out at Betty as things she does or the way she talks.

She’s wondered more than once if she should be taking a hint.

Wonders if she should be taking her own, really. Kevin’s voice floats back at her, almost tauntingly. _You know what this sounds like, right?_

Betty has loved a lot of people before.

She’s loved her parents, despite the almost strangled attempt at a perfect childhood and the resulting resentment. She’s loved her sister without question. She’s loved Veronica and Kevin; for any of them, she knows she’d do just about anything they asked of her, because their kind of love earns that right.

She’d loved Trev, too. Surely. They’d been together long enough that there was a certain kind of inevitability there, a comfort that only comes from the deepest set normalcy.

But she questions now if she was ever _in_ love with him. She hadn’t even been fully aware there was a difference until now, because she’d loved Trev in the same way she loves all her friends, and there’d never been a reason to separate those types of love.

But as she sits here with Jughead, thinking about _roman à clef_ and all she’d shared on her theories of love, she knows it’s different. This—this fluttering thought that appears at the mere sight of him, that flaps little wings madly against the memories of the way he kisses her or the way he’s always tried to make the sex so delineated and felt. 

And really, hasn’t this been what she’s known all along? Been in denial of, unwilling to name? Convinced not only that she should settle for what she thought she could get, but because of what it might actually mean to her?

He looks at her, his eyes creasing with a studying virtue, as if trying to read her mind. She knows he cannot, but can’t decide if she wishes he could, because just behind her eyes is a blooming realization.

Soft as a petal, the thought arrives, and she finally admits to herself that what they’ve been doing is making love.

He’s been making love to her.

She’s been loving him back.

“Betty?” He asks quietly, almost at a whisper.

It nearly tumbles out of her, the flowers in her thoughts, the sudden definition of what she’d been afraid to name. But it’s like trying to catch a beam of light; it falls over her, bathes her in warmth, fills the space around her, but she cannot hold onto it with her bare hands.

His expression is turning more and more serious the longer she stays silent, as if he’s working through something in his own head.

Something vibrates loudly between them, and she realizes it’s not herself being poetic. His phone is actually buzzing with a phone call. He blinks rapidly, coming back into the moment, and then digs into his pocket for his phone.

“Hey,” he says distractedly. “Yeah, sorry, we’re—” His eyes flick over at her. “We’re at Crown Fountain. Yeah. We’ll be there soon.”

He hangs up. “JB?” Betty guesses, and he pulls her up with him when he stands.

“We’re late, apparently,” he sighs. He hasn’t quite lost the look of nerves around his eyes. “Were you going to say something?”

She shakes her head and squeezes the hand still holding hers, because the truth is, she knows she’s not ready for that.

“It can wait,” she says. It’ll have to.

.

.

.

After the museum and a round of squabbling over Jughead’s desire for pizza again wherein Betty wonders if she’s stuck in some kind of time loop, they meet in the middle, and head back to Wicker Park for a place that sells vegan pizza as well as regular deep-dish.

Jughead and JB are not like her and Polly, whose arguments build up for months, sometimes years, before a prolonged fight, and the conclusion of which is always both of them apologizing profusely to one another through tears. Instead—the two Jones siblings bicker with enthusiasm, rising to the occasion of being contrary like it’s a game of sport. It’s not banter, so much as they argue easily, and then they get over it easily.

It’s entertaining to watch, but a little less entertaining when she’s later trying to wrangle them towards the restaurant for their reservation. JB found a nice French place in the even nicer neighborhood of Lincoln Park, and of course Jughead finds a joke to make about the band Linkin Park, and of course it sets JB off on how it’s too soon for jokes and _for once_ could he not be so morbid.

Eventually though, Betty does get them there, even if she thinks she’d have an easier time herding cats. Once they get to the restaurant, JB seems to calm, straightening up as she heads over to the hostess to check in for their table. She stands there for a long moment, talking to the hostess and casting furtive glances back over at them, ones that Jughead does not notice, as he’s busy taking in the ornate atmosphere of the room.

“By the way,” Jughead says, as they’re settling into their seats. JB sits from across from them on the booth side of the table, and glances over, her eyes wide. “Is it possible for Betty to come to the graduation ceremony tomorrow? I know you have to reserve tickets, so we weren’t sure if there was an extra one.”

“I’d love to come if I can,” Betty slips in, smiling at JB, who almost seems to relax as she nods.

“Yeah, I put one aside in case Archie was going to come, so you can have his,” JB says, taking a large bite of bread. “That’s nice of you, Betty.”

“I’ve never been on this side of a graduation, but it’ll be good practice for when my best friend goes through it in a couple years,” Betty replies, thinking she’ll probably have to fly out to LA a month early for all the parties Veronica will inevitably have planned.

The conversation leads to Betty’s life in Riverdale; JB seems genuinely interested in hearing about engines, and asks her to show her a few tips sometime. In turn, Jughead shares the part of the story where he had the same idea, even though he now acknowledges it was half an excuse to nurse a crush on some hot mechanic. His words.

They place their dinner orders, but by the time the food arrives, JB has gone from vaguely unfocused to completely distracted. Jughead seems to notice, but isn’t reacting in any particular way, so Betty chalks it up to nerves about actually graduating tomorrow. She remembers that _she_ was a complete wreck the night before she walked across that stage.

“So,” Jughead says conversationally, cutting into his steak. “I’m sure you’ll probably hate this question, so I promise to only ask once a month, and honestly, no pressure, no rush. Whatever you want to do is fine, but have you given any thought to what you want to do after school?”

JB shovels her forkful of pasta into her mouth, chewing slowly. She also takes her time swallowing. “Right. Okay. Well, you know how I’ve still been going to Al-Anon meetings?” He nods. “I actually started leading my group last year. It…it’s been really rewarding, getting to help people in the way it helped me.”

“That’s great,” Betty says, glancing over at Jughead. He’s nodding, but his expression is somewhat faraway.

JB’s eyes flick between the two of them and then down to her food. “Yeah, it is. So I’ve been thinking, to start, that I’d like to do something like that back in Boston.”

“Continuing the meetings?” He asks, his eyebrows meeting with a frown. Betty thinks it’s not necessarily the fact that he disapproves, but rather he’s studying his sister, almost suspiciously. JB has been twirling the same rope of pasta for the last ten seconds and not looking up. Finally, she meets his eye.

“Yes, but…I was thinking I might take it a step—oh, _fuck,”_ she says suddenly, staring at something over both their shoulders. She lets out a short, panicked breath. “Fuck. He’s early.”

Betty and Jughead turn together. She doesn’t see anything unusual at first; waiters shuffling table to table, delivering food and pouring water, diners crossing through the restaurant—and then she sees an older man clearly coming their way, eyes on them and moving with very purposeful steps.

He’s nicely dressed, but in a way that looks almost uncomfortable on him and somewhat dated, as if his idea of a clean cut was profiled in 1998 and stayed that way. And as he gets closer, Betty recognizes him.

Or, she doesn’t, but she knows at once who he is.

The dark hair, the way he walks, the drivingly observant eyes; because even down to the twitching slope of his mouth, Jughead looks just like him.

In the seat beside her, Jughead has gone completely still, one hand curling so tightly around the back of his chair that the knuckles are iced white. He wears an expression of galvanized steel, freshly beaten down to a fine and gleaming silver.

The man pulls up to a stop in front of the table, smiling thinly, but hopefully all the same. His eyes briefly dart over at Betty curiously, but when they land on Jughead, they don’t move again.

And then, in a low voice and through a rolling gait of nerves and anticipation, he says, “Hey kid.”

Jughead blinks.

.

.

.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bum bum bum y'all
> 
> i've been sitting on this twist from the very beginning and am so excited to finally get to FP. i had a couple comments where people were (hopefully pleasantly) surprised that the end of the fic wasn't jug and betty officially getting together a couple chapters ago, but there was a lot more i wanted to get into, to give the readers as much closure as i wanted to give the characters. 
> 
> this story is half about jughead's childhood and why he is the way he is, and FP is most of it. so he had to show up eventually. 
> 
> listening playlist: _the book of love_ by the magnetic fields and _boyish_ by japanese breakfast (though not the lyrics, just the overall sound/instruments). lyrics at the top are from _gypsy_ by fleetwood mac, my fav song ever. 
> 
> i've only been to chicago once but the crown fountain did make a big impression me. google it, folks, it's weird and beautiful. 
> 
> also, this chapter marks officially having met the 100k mark, which....is kind of a huge moment for me, actually. i can't believe i've written this much. like, if you'd told me even a couple months ago that i'd hit this goal??
> 
> anyway, i really can't say how much the comments mean to me without sounding overbearing, but they're incredibly motivating when i hit a snag, so if you can, please drop me a comment and let me know what you thought of this chapter. hopefully some of you were surprised by the ending!


	17. Chapter 17

_It's always been the same, same old story_

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He always knew it would come back to water.

Jughead was afraid of it as a child. He’s sure he can trace it back to being exposed to the movie _Titanic_ too young; his mother stealed away in the big bedroom with his colicky baby sister, desperate for her to sleep, his father, working late on Fred Andrews’ construction site, and him, settled into his father’s favorite armchair, his feet just barely kicking off the end.

What rules there were growing up were not readily enforced, but still, Jughead didn’t always get a lot of time in front of the television to himself. Their lone set was firmly his father’s domain. He would come home after a long day of manual labor, mutter, _“Up, kid,”_ and shoo Jughead out of the best seat in the house.

Jughead always left after that. There was a couch he could move to, and he wasn’t even being kicked out of the room, because most of what his father put on was still appropriate for a child, usually a blend of football and Ken Burns—in fact, he didn’t care whether Jughead stayed or went.

Once FP Jones sank into that big armchair, it was like a combination of exhaustion and that collection of tiny, glittering pixels made him forget his son was there at all.

“Your dad works a very tiring job,” his mother had sighed once, when dressing Jughead for bed. He’d been pouting all day. His dad hadn’t said anything about the aced spelling test pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like the Empire State Building, just come home, gone straight for a beer and his chair, and fallen asleep.

Jughead remembers trying to understand that. But he also remembers that the test was up for months, and that his father never mentioned it.

Sometimes he thinks the television prepared him for the birth of his sister; it was always the golden child, the favorite, the one who could do no wrong.

He didn’t resent it, because even then, through the throng of disappointment and just desperate for a little attention, he knew his mother was right. His father was still then the foreman for Archie’s father, and it was a demanding job even on a good day. And he was doing it all for his family, to provide as best he could, because he loved them.

(He knew, and has always known, that his father loved him.)

(That was never the question.)

But he stopped bringing home the tests marked with little gold stars.

There wasn’t any point if it was just going to sit there on the fridge unnoticed, eventually replaced by a reminder from the city about unpaid parking tickets. He thinks his parents were just as proud of his good grades as any others would be, but the older he got, the more he realized how tense and stressed they both were, and the stupider it felt to ask for anything more than a roof over his head.

After all, little gold stars didn’t buy bread.

The desire for attention shifted into something else, something polar. He moved further back and back until he was pressed against the wall, deeper into the shadows so he couldn’t hear the song of clinking glass rolling across the floor.

He learned not to be a source of distraction, good or bad, not when things were already moving so tenuously between his mother and father. By then, they were using any excuse to fight and he didn’t want to be the one that broke the dam.

But in those earlier years, on those nights when he had the television to himself, he wanted it to feel a little dangerous. A little spiteful, like he was going to rule the little kingdom of the living room for one night. And always a glutton for self-destruction, he deliberately wanted to watch things not recommended for six year olds.

So he put on the VHS copy of _Titanic_ , the one his mother had rented because these were still the happier times, and she always thought his father looked a bit like Leonardo DiCaprio. There was a similar trend with Johnny Depp films. It was the only joke he ever heard them share.

Throughout the first half of the film, Jughead didn’t understand why he hadn’t been allowed to watch it with his parents. There were several scenes he didn’t really get, but for the most part, Jughead liked all the glittering sets and thought Jack Dawson was the kind of hero he wanted in his own life.

He thought Rose was very pretty, and that it was cool she remained kind in the face of unhappiness. And he remembers thinking she and Jack were so _different,_ but really, they weren’t. He liked that.

And then it all went to shit.

Jughead sat there, his mouth dropped open and unable to look away as the unsinkable ship sank. He watched the musicians play their last tune and fall to their deaths. He listened to an hour of screams and blinked as the water rose and claimed lives without second thought.

He watched as Jack Dawson, the man he wanted to be, slipped into the blackness of the ocean, his lips frosted blue. With a heart full of horror, Jughead decided right then and there that water was the hand of death.

Not in such poetic terms, considering his grasp on mortality was thin at best and he’d only just learned how to spell the word _animal_. But the impression was made, and lasted all the way through to adulthood.

FP had come home right after Rose had begun blowing on the whistle that would save her life, and it was like the catatonic spell was broken, because as soon as he saw him, Jughead cried out for his father and burst into tears.

“Jesus, kid,” FP had hissed, immediately rushing for the remote to turn the movie off. “What were you doing, watching that?”

He drew up Jughead into his arms and soothed him through all the tears and sputtering of wild worries about dying or boats or swimming ever again or what could be waiting in the dark depths, eager to swallow him whole.

In a literal, sad sense, it’s the closest he’s ever been to his father—or, at least, probably the longest he was ever hugged by him. He’d felt so small in that armchair, but so safe when wrapped up and held.

In that way, Jughead appreciates the memory; sometimes it was the only touchstone he could fall back on, especially when he was a teenager and his father’s drinking was escalating and he needed to constantly remind himself that his father was sick, not deliberately an asshole.

However, it was also the moment that solidified his fear of water.

The fear first manifested that summer at Archie’s birthday party, the one where he’d sat in the grass, catalogued the rainbow of bubbles, and refused to go on the Slip ‘N Slide. It didn’t go noticed among his already typical behavior of sticking to the social fringe, but Jughead knew why.

It showed up again a couple weeks later, on the hottest day of the year. There was no air conditioning at their house, just a couple of lowly, creaking fans that were never louder than a crying baby, and Fred Andrews had invited FP and Jughead to come to the community pool with them.

Jughead hadn’t wanted to go, but FP had insisted it would be fun, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. So they loaded up into the pickup truck with towels and a big, rattling cooler, and then rumbled over meet the Andrews at the pool.

He distinctly remembers the chaos there; dozens of families, screaming and running children despite the multitude of signs begging them not to, strutting teenagers overlooking their social sphere. Ice cream melted all over the concrete, the thick smell of sunscreen and chlorine everywhere he turned.

Archie was already in the water when they arrived, buoyant on a pool noodle, and waved eagerly at Jughead, who hung back with his dad as they wound towards the beach chairs where Fred was waiting. His father had brought a couple cans of beer in the cooler, despite it being early afternoon, but Fred was having one too, so Jughead had thought maybe it was okay.

“C’mon, go swim, son,” FP had said as he settled against the warm plastic and cracked open his can. Jughead had learned to swim two years ago, but he didn’t move. His father had on a pair of low-slung sunglasses and glanced at his son over the black rim of them.

But he remained there on the edge of the seat, his knee bouncing and thinking about all those people who perished in the water while watching _Titanic_. He knew the movie was based on a real event; people had _actually_ died. In the _water._

“I don’t want to,” he’d said quietly.

He knew it was irrational, he knew the context was wildly different. And in no such words, he’d decided that water was the open, waiting mouth of transience, and he had a vision of himself sinking beneath the depths, his feet kicking furiously, uselessly, lost to the world. If he couldn’t stand, he would drown.

“Jug,” FP groaned. “It’s hotter than hell out here. Go cool off.”

“I’m scared,” he’d whispered, eyes cast onto a crack in the concrete, just in case he’d have to face Fred Andrews turning to look at him with curiosity or, worse, judgment.

“Ah, I get it. This is about that damn movie again, huh?” Jughead nodded, his attention still on the ground. “Alright,” his father had said, blowing out a sigh that was halfway a chuckle. “I’ll go in with you, okay? Nothing bad’s gonna happen to you with your old man there.”

He still didn’t want to go in, but his father was heaving his legs over the side of the chair. He put his sunglasses and beer can down underneath it, and ushered Jughead to the edge of the pool.

He stood there, watching the water ripple across the surface.

“Kid, this is ridiculous,” FP laughed, when Jughead couldn’t budge any closer. “My pop would’ve already pushed me in, you know. Told me to get over it. And he might’ve not been wrong. There are a lot better things to be afraid of than some crap pool with a lifeguard.”

Jughead had looked over at his father with worry in his eyes, so FP squatted down and put his hands on his son’s shoulders.

“You can’t let your fears tell you what to do,” he’d said, and then stood, picked Jughead up, and threw him into the water.

Ironically, his father was the one who would eventually drown.

According to Fred Andrews, anyway. As teenagers, Jughead would overhear him telling Archie that he just couldn’t help FP anymore, that he’d tried, but when someone was drowning, they couldn’t be saved, not if they were just going to drag others down with them.

At the time, he’d felt nothing but betrayal and anger towards Fred, but it was a lesson that would come back to him. At the first DUI, at the second—and then, finally, at the third, when he realized his father had thrown him into the deep end again.

Around then, in college, he wrote an essay about David Foster Wallace.

According to his sister, Jughead had a soft spot for depressed writers that worried her, but he didn’t look at it that way. Post-wake-up-call from a Women’s Studies class, he had realized all his literary heroes were creeps.

Nevertheless, stumbling across _Infinite Jest_ when he was 20 still made a huge impact; how could it not have, when it dedicated so much of the plot to alcoholics living in Boston? 

But what sat with him the most was a commencement speech Wallace wrote for a graduating class of Kenyon College. It was given a simple, apt name, one that drew him in despite his realization that Wallace was yet another disappointing dick to women. 

 _This is Water,_ it was called. It was a speech about, most broadly, the meaning of life. Or rather, what people do with it. It was about the imminent loneliness of adulthood, about learning the power of choice. Empathy and understanding as survival techniques.

And that was what Jughead wrote about. Because in the speech, Wallace asked the audience to consider that there’s always a tale for the angry mother, always a song for the furious customer, so on and so on. He argued considering the story of a stranger might not be so sunny was the most powerful way to resist the lure of depression and cynicism in the face of a disillusioning world.

Instead, Jughead ran the other direction with it. He didn’t agree with Wallace—after all those years at Al-Anon, all those writing exercises assigned by his group leader, and all the college semesters further exploring it, he’d already learned to empathize, and he wasn’t sure it’d helped.

He finally understood his father, and that was the problem.

Fred had been right.

But Wallace was also right when he said a fish would ask, _“What the hell is water?”_

Fish never learn to swim in the way a bird has to learn to fly. Like people, they just _begin._ To them, water is just the hand they’ve been dealt; it is what is. But without that lesson of the nest, without the trial of falling, there’s nothing to know to solve. If not aware of the water, they’re just left with a problem they cannot name.

Jughead didn’t have to ask what water was anymore. Water is the air he grew up breathing, and if he hadn’t realized it when he had, he knows he too could’ve been lost to the tides.

He’d finally figured it out. His father was always drowning, and Jughead was always afraid of turning into him.

He got over the more literal manifestation of his fears, at some point. Sort of. It became less about the water itself, but rather the darkness looming beneath, waiting for him to make a mistake so it could claim him too.

Though it always had been, really. As the fear became slightly more abstracted, less visceral, he learned to control it a bit more. He could handle pools, though it was rare he’d actually ever enjoy one. And once Reggie had come into his and Archie’s lives, the beach became a much more frequent part of his summers, even if Jughead only went when Archie wouldn’t accept his excuses. He never got in deeper than his knees anyway.

But it wasn’t until he met Betty that he realized water could be about floating, not just treading or drowning.

On that day in the river, he’d wished he’d known her all his life. Thought maybe that he had, in some other world, for the way he already felt around her. Hell, he was _swimming,_ just because she’d asked him to.

But he understands now that if he had grown up with her, he would’ve learned to redefine love a lot earlier. Might’ve given him a lot more courage a lot earlier too, might’ve not taken so long for him to finally do what needed to be done about self-preservation.

It hadn’t been easy, as he’d cut his favorite college class to drive across the state to Norfolk, where his father was now sitting in prison. His hands were tight around the wheel, his sister’s mix tapes filtering through the truck.

 _Can music save your mortal soul,_ Side A asked him. He’d hoped Side B would remind him that _papa was a rolling stone,_ but he didn’t need it to. Instead, _helter-skelter in a summer swelter_ lingered in his thoughts as he steeled himself for what he had to do.

In the end, it’d all come down to a whispered _“I’m done, Dad,”_ through a crackly phone and a wall of distorted glass.

“No! No, no, _hey,_ I learned my lesson,” FP had begged feverishly. His father looked terrible, not far into his forced sobriety. He hammered a fist against the plexiglass. “Don’t give up on me, son. I’m gonna get better in here.”

Jughead had been halfway out of his seat. He looked back at his father mournfully, and shook his head. “You must think I’m an idiot. How many times have you told me that?”

“This time is different! It _is,_ don’t look at me like that. I get it now, and I’m gonna get better for you,” he swore fiercely, his jaw ticking and his eyes broken.

Jughead laughed, but hated the way it sounded coming out of him. It was harsh and spent. “For me? For _me?_ Dad, look at me. I’m not a kid anymore. I can’t go through this again, or let JB get dragged around by this bullshit. I’m sorry, I am, but this is it. I _can’t_ do this anymore. Don’t call me when you get out.”

His father pounded on the glass again as Jughead put down the phone. He was still calling his name when he walked out the door, but muffled behind the glass. Lost, like a voice underwater.

And despite all that—despite the fact that his intention was to never again see or speak to his father, here he is now, sitting across from him at dinner.

At fucking _dinner._

FP Jones slides in next to JB, who says softly, “Hi Dad,” and gives him a quick hug. Jughead feels Betty’s wide eyes on him, but he can do nothing but gape across the table, his jaw slack.

The waitress appears with a place setting and hands him the drinks menu, and Jughead’s mouth runs dry, but his father passes her back the menu and says, clearly, pointedly, “Just water, thanks.”

Just water.

And at that, it all comes back to him. The grand, sinking ship; the brief feeling of weightlessness as his father lifted him into the air and the drop in his stomach when he hit the pool.

 _American Pie_ playing in the truck, the window down as he drove away from the state prison, his eyes on the road ahead of him. The fish, and all he learned.

He remembers.

This is water.

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Anger will be his next reaction, but for now, he’s just operating on shock and rapidly dawning comprehension. _He’s early,_ JB had said.

Dread settles in at his feet. She’d known he was coming.

“Who’s this?” FP says, grinning in Betty’s direction as he unrolls a napkin onto his lap and reaches for a bread roll.

Betty glances over to Jughead for direction, clearly just as dumbfounded as he is, but his brain is still short-circuiting. Why is he _here?_ Why had his sister _done_ this? What—

But then, without much of an option to do anything else, Betty is reaching across the table to shake FP’s hand.

“I’m Betty Cooper, sir. Jughead’s girlfriend,” she says, and were this any other situation with any other context, he’s fairly sure he’d think someone calling Forsythe Pendleton Jones II _sir_ was the best joke of the year.

He realizes a moment later that this is the first time Betty has referred to herself as his girlfriend, and it duels within him as his heart catches with love. He wishes desperately that this was happening any other way, because he already wants to block out this whole night—but he never wants to forget the way he felt when he heard her say that, a song for the ages.

“Girlfriend?” FP repeats, and at the surprise in his voice, Jughead finds a bit of his anger simmering towards the surface. He’d be the first one to declare Betty is way out of his league, but who does his father think he is? He has no right to pass judgment on their relationship, or in any part of Jughead’s life, for that matter.

His fingers curl into a fist on top of his leg, and a moment later, Betty’s hand is covering it, her thumb swiping against his skin soothingly. He can’t look at her.

Again. Why is his father _here?_

This has JB written all over it—obviously, he was the only one who ever actually cut off contact with FP Jones, even after he’d done it for both of them. Though to be fair, he’d technically never asked the same of her, but it would be a lie to say he didn’t expect she ever _wouldn’t._

But she did. And then she’d kept it from him.

The moment Jughead opens his mouth, however, he’s going to skyrocket, so he deliberately drags his bottom lip between his teeth to give him something else to focus on.

FP turns to his daughter. “You didn’t say he had a girlfriend,” he says, something else now coloring his voice. If he were sixteen and still just as foolish, he would’ve called it pride.

JB’s eyes move in a circle around the table before landing back on Jughead, her expression tense.

“We haven’t been together long,” Betty supplies, when it seems like JB isn’t going to answer. Her hand tightens over his under the table, and he releases the fist and turns it upwards in order to lace their fingers. It’s the only thanks he can give her right now.

“Well, nice to meet you, Betty,” his father says slowly. “I’m FP Jones.”

 _She knows who you are,_ he wants to yell. _Shut up._

FP casts another anticipatory look over at Jughead, but he’s determinedly staring at nothing on the table, trying to concentrate on the feel of Betty’s fingers locked with his own.

“This is a nice place,” his father adds, when no one else can find anything to say. “Almost expected there to be some stiff in a penguin suit by the front door trying to take my coat.”

Jughead has a crunching, disrupting memory of the ornate dining room in the movie that haunted him for so long. This restaurant is not floating on the _RMS Titanic,_ but it almost could be. Fittingly, his stomach sinks.

When another silence follows, FP gives an awkward chuckle. “C’mon son, say something.”

His tongue digging forcefully into his cheek, Jughead scoffs and shakes his head. He has about a thousand things he’d like to say and is hyperaware that JB probably chose this fancy and very public location so that he wouldn’t be able to.

He blinks up at the ceiling reproachfully. “You don’t want to hear what I have to say, Dad.”

“Jug—” JB starts, but Jughead’s eyes dart onto her harshly.

“To either of you,” he corrects, effectively cutting his sister off. He turns to Betty, flicking his eyes down. “Let’s go.”

“Hey, hey,” FP interjects sharply, a defensive hand waving in front of JB as Jughead just barely starts to rise from his seat. “Don’t be mad at your sister. That’s not fair.”

“Oh?” He laughs, and Jughead realizes he sounds almost delirious, but it’s like steam is rising into his head and clouding his vision. His voice has dropped to an icy, curling hiss. “Not fair? Not fucking fair? How about cornering me with a hidden-camera-level reveal in a fucking four-star restaurant so that I wouldn’t be able to get mad?” He flicks his eyes furiously onto JB. “Or is that not what you just did?”

“Okay,” JB hisses back, leaning forward, _“yes,_ that’s what I did. But what else what I was supposed to do?”

He flattens his palms against the table. “Wh—what _else?_ How about not fucking dropping this on me at all? How about not lying to me for who knows how long? How about telling me any of this at _any_ fucking point in the last month?”

“You wouldn’t have come!” JB says, her voice rising, even as she struggles to keep it down. “It’s my graduation! I wanted my family there!”

“Of course I still would’ve come,” he scoffs, but her words hit him hard. It feels as though he’s been punched.

There’s a brief moment where he asks himself if that’s true. If he’d known his father was going to be waiting for him at the end of the line, what _would_ he have done? He doesn’t have to think about it long, though; he would’ve stuck to the shadows, but he wouldn’t have missed his little sister’s graduation for anything.

JB’s eyes widen, and he sees a spot of regret waxing and waning in the face of defiance. But if he doesn’t get out of here now, he’s going to lose it. He tugs on Betty’s hand, still gripped in his own.

“Come on,” he says, and leads her out of the restaurant. He hears JB moving behind them, but doesn’t look back at his father. He wouldn’t know what to do with whatever expression is there anyway.

His sister is hot on his trail as she calls, “Jug, Jughead! Wait! I want to explain!”

She follows them all the way out of the restaurant, but he doesn’t turn around until they’ve met the warm night air. He’d had a stupid thought that JB would actually let them leave so easily, and now that she’s looking at him with wide eyes in new light, he feels his resolve crumble slightly.

“Betty, can you give us a moment?” He asks, huffing and running a hand through his hair.

“Of course,” she replies, releasing his hand in order to briefly cup his face and give him a quick kiss of confidence. He knows what she’s trying to say. _You can do this._

She walks off across the street where there’s a bench outside a café and pulls a book out of her bag, because of course she has it on her. He wouldn’t be able to focus on a book if he was her, but he appreciates her attempt at giving him the space. He stares after her for a moment, missing her comforting presence already, but knows he doesn’t want her to hear this.

Jughead turns back to his sister, his arms folded. He takes a long, shuddering breath and closes his eyes. “You know, I only ever asked one thing of you,” he says, his voice small and browbeaten.

“Jug—”

 _“One_ thing,” he continues, ignoring her attempts to interject. He opens his eyes, anger returning to his tone. “I didn’t want to be lied to. No secrets. I mean, Jesus, JB, how could you have kept this from me? Are you that far up your own Joan Jett RPG that you just couldn’t do the _one_ thing I asked? You just _had_ to indulge that little flame of rebellion? What, just because I told you not to?”

“First of all, fuck you,” JB snaps, her hands on her hips. “Second of all, I’m sorry, okay? I _wanted_ to tell you, Jug, but there was no way for me to come out of this unscathed. You completely set me up to fail! You never even asked if I still wanted to talk to Dad before deciding he was out of our lives!”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come _on—”_

“No, I mean it!” JB interrupts, her tone starting to really escalate now. “I know you’re going to say that you never told me not to see Dad, but you made your feelings on the matter pretty fucking clear! And I _get it,_ I really do,” she adds, in something of a plea. “I know you had a different relationship with Dad. I _know_ it was harder on you than it ever was on me. You bore the brunt of it, and I don’t blame you for wanting out!”

He inhales sharply, still too furious to fully absorb this. He feels his hackles rise with his voice. “I was doing what I had to, for both of—”

“That’s my fucking point!” JB hollers back. They’re practically screaming at each other on the street now, effectively defeating the point of him asking Betty to step away. He’s sure she can hear them. A family awkwardly ushers past them, a small child deliberately obscured from their view, but he doesn’t care.

“You’re not my father, Jughead! And I don’t want you to be! You shouldn’t have ever had to be!” She looks at him, her eyebrows tangled and breathing heavily. “We _have_ a dad and I finally knew how I could help him be one, so when he got out I told him to come to Chicago if he really wanted to get better.”

Jughead stares at her. “He’s been _living_ here?” He asks, momentarily so shocked he forgets his anger. But not for long. “For over a fucking _year?_ Christ, is this why you didn’t come home last summer?”

“Look,” JB says quickly, almost desperately, “I had a whole speech planned. I was going to lead you into it, about all the work I’ve been doing with Al-Anon and the internship at the rehab center. Remember when you asked if you could read my thesis? Or if you could help me bounce ideas? Remember? And I told you not yet, but one day?”

The dread that’d been bricks in his feet moves up his legs.

“I didn’t want you to read it because it was basically about Dad, and all the work we’ve been doing to get him healthy! And he’s _sober,_ Jug. He’s been sober two years, Jug! Ever since you stopped talking to him,” she says, her eyes wide. “He said it woke him up. That’s why I waited so long to tell you—I thought—I thought the longer he had his health under his belt, the more you’d see he was changing!”

He just shakes his head and rubs his hand across the path of his jaw. “He’s been sober before, JB. More than once,” he reminds her tightly, half unable to process what he’s hearing.

“Not this long,” she argues firmly. “And I’m gonna make sure it sticks. He’s been making a lot of progress! I got him a job at the center, and I set him up with this really great cognitive behavioral therapist I know through school, and—it’s like, this is what I was meant to do.”

She takes a big breath. “When I started at Northwestern, I had no idea what I wanted to study. I dicked around the first two years, but when I finally looked around at the classes I liked, it just kept coming back to psych. I’ve been studying recovery basically ever since. Try to tackle it from the inside; the depression and anxiety attached, not just the addiction. I want—I want to help people, Jug. People like Dad, _and_ people like us, who had to grow up with it.”

He has a flush of pride, even if he admonishes the thought. Now is not the time to get distracted. He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “But JB, again, how the fuck could you have _kept this_ from me? What happened to not keeping secrets? I mean, every time I called you and you asked me to tell you when I was getting on the road, was that just because you didn’t want me to surprise you and find Dad at your apartment?”

JB doesn’t say anything, just presses her lips together, and he knows he’s right.

“This is _my_ graduation,” she says again, much softer this time. “I wanted my family there. And for me, that’s you _and_ Dad. I’m sorry for the way this all came out, but Jug, there was no way I was going to be able to tell you this without you freaking out.”

He scoffs. “Maybe that’s true, but JB, this is the worst possible way you could’ve done it—you did this in front of _Betty,”_ he reminds her stiffly, his voice dropping to a hiss. “How could you have sprung this bullshit on _her?”_

For the first time, his sister looks fully regretful. “It wasn’t part of my plan,” she explains hurriedly. “I didn’t even know she existed until last week, let alone that she was coming to Chicago with you! I mean, what was I supposed to do? Tell her not to come to dinner because Dad was going to be there? You would’ve freaked out and not come at all, and then you would’ve avoided Dad at the ceremony and it would’ve been ruined and—and—again, I had a whole fucking speech! I had a plan!”

She’s starting to cry now, and he digs his palms into his forehead for a moment before sighing and feeling a large chunk of his rage break off and float away. He’s never been able to stay angry when his sister is crying.

“Stop, stop, please don’t cry,” he says hastily, though he doesn’t embrace her, still too upset to start fully comforting _her._ For once, he wants to be selfish.

She wipes at her cheeks. “I didn’t want it to go this way,” she says in a quiet, broken voice.

“But it did,” Jughead says, shaking his head. He closes his eyes again as the confession bubbles up inside him. “Fuck, I mean, I _love_ Betty, and if she hasn’t run for the hills yet, this is absolutely going to make her come to her senses. I mean, how could anyone want a ticket to this shit show?”

When he finally opens his eyes, JB is gaping at him. “You love her?” She repeats. “Jug, how long have you even known her?”

“I know it sounds insane,” he says quietly. It’s the first time he’s actually admitted it aloud and hearing it just further confirms that it’s his truth. “I can’t explain it.”

JB watches him for another long moment, and then says, “If you really do love her, you can’t think so lowly of her that she’ll just up and run the minute she gets close to you. And if she _does,_ then you’re saving yourself a lot of heartbreak down the line, and fuck her. But—even I barely know her, and I already can see she’s not that kind of person. You have to try to let people know you, Jug.”

“How are you already turning this into my therapy session?” He says, with a strangled laugh, even as her words rattle around in his thoughts.

_If you love her, you can’t think so lowly of her._

She’s right, and he feels like an idiot for not seeing it this way sooner. But he’s losing steam and can’t start to get diverted by thoughts of Betty. He exhales noisily. “Look, I understand that you think you can help Dad. I think if anyone could, it’s you. But it’s not _you_ I don’t trust with that, JB. He’s just going to hurt and disappoint you when he relapses.”

“He won’t,” JB says, and for a moment, he sees his sister at thirteen, her hands on her hips in the middle of some livid argument with their father and the way he’d stopped drinking for nearly a year after that.

 _He will,_ he thinks, but can’t muster the energy to tell her that. Perhaps it’s revisiting an old memory, but exhaustion hits him suddenly like a punch to the stomach.

“You know what, I can’t talk about this anymore,” he sighs, turning to go. “Not tonight. I’m…I can’t. I’m heading back to my hotel.”

“Wait! Are—are you still coming to the ceremony tomorrow?” JB asks, and he pivots back to her, his eyebrows knotted.

“Of course, JB, of course,” he says seriously, and with a hint of exasperation. “I would’ve still come even if you hadn’t sprung this on me. I always would’ve come.”

He’s said it before, but this seems to be the first time that JB believes him. Her chin trembles again, and then she launches herself forward and hugs him. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers into his shirt. “There was no way to do this right.”

Jughead thinks that there was, but he’s too tired to get into it again. When they separate, he runs his hand through his hair again. “Night,” he says, his throat dry, and once she returns the goodbye, doesn’t look back before crossing the street to Betty.

“Hey,” he says to her, and hearing how weary his voice sounds, he knows her reaction is going to be full of worry.

“Are you okay?” She asks immediately, reaching for his hand.

He’s not sure if she remembers his story about Al-Anon as she says it, but just like that first time, he’s been waiting for someone to ask him that.

Jughead shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, and draws her close so that his whispered and broken _no_ is a secret just for them.

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Betty hails a cab for them back to the hotel, and even though he’s thinking about the money still on their metro cards, he doesn’t protest. He just wants to get to a bed as soon as possible.

He’s quiet the whole way there, Betty nestled against him, her head on his shoulder and her thumb still rubbing faintly into the back of his hand. He thinks he’s never been more grateful for anyone in his life; can’t believe he’s so lucky to have met her, and hell of a lot luckier that she wants to be with him.

She accepts his silence until they climb into bed, forgoing any of the usual nighttime routines in favor of the open arms of a mattress. He flops down onto his back fully clothed, unable to close his eyes without having a childhood flashback of his father.

In his mind, he is still six, and he hits the flat of the pool over and over again.

He’s so sick of this, of carrying this history and anger around. Seeing his father again has just made him realize that despite his best efforts, he never got closure.

And dimly, he’s sure he was aware of it. Aware that he wanted it. He knew what he was doing when he vilified the father in his first book. But he had thought—maybe that would be enough.

“Talk to me,” she says softly, and he finds it within himself to honor her request. He shifts onto his side in order to look into her eyes, not sure where to start.

“I didn’t graduate from college,” he says, blowing out a puff of air. “And I mean, it obviously worked out. I don’t regret dropping out. It was what I had to do. But—when I saw my dad, I was so _angry._ Everything I thought I’d put in the past came back just to punch me in the fucking face. I felt like a kid again—not that I’ve ever felt like an adult, not really. I’ve been stuck in some kind terrible hybrid since my mom left. I just…”

He trails off, not sure how to say this. But Betty gives him an encouraging, tender kind of look, and he finds a way. “I just don’t want to always be locked in this fugue state, and I worry I always will because I never had some big, metaphorical graduation ceremony welcoming me into adulthood.”

“Oh, Juggie,” she whispers, which is what he’s learning she says whenever she’s emoting on his behalf.

“I hate it,” he adds, almost too quiet to hear.

Betty draws a breath. “Just because you never had a graduation doesn’t mean you’ll never feel grown up,” she says gently, her fingers tracing lightly against his cheek. “Trust me. I feel the same way, not quite an adult either, even though technically I guess we are. And I _had_ the ceremony. But all the metaphors in the world wouldn’t magically give us anything. We just have to trust hindsight, I think. Like we’ll wake up and just…realize we’ve already been there.”

He worries his lip, but nods. He thinks she’s right, like in the way he knows he’s loved her in hindsight, all the moments that make so much more sense to him now. Nearly tells her he loves her right then and there. But it’s way too soon, and he doesn’t want to scare her off.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says. “I mean, JB is right. She can do whatever she wants, and if she wants him in her life, that’s her choice. But it—it just makes me feel like he’ll come back into mine too. And I want to believe him, Betty, I really do. But he’s been sober before, and every time he relapsed, it just got worse.”

Betty chews on her lip as if trying to find the right thing to say. He can’t imagine trying to give advice about something like this without a similar experience, so he tries to explain more. “I know everyone carries their childhood with them, but mine was just… _heavy._ It still is. And I’m realizing that everything I thought I had put behind me is still here.”

He inhales. “I don’t _want_ to be heaving this around for the rest of my life. I don’t know if that means I should try to forgive him, or if the right thing to do is…put more distance, even if it means my sister is a casualty of that. But I could never abandon her like that, so that’s not really an option either. I mean, it’s fucked.”

“It’s fucked,” Betty repeats in agreement, and he almost bursts out laughing, hearing the word _fucked_ come out of her mouth. Some of that must show on his face, because a small smile appears at the corner of her lips, and he realizes she did it on purpose, to try to make him laugh.

“I just don't know if I’m brave enough to face this,” he admits ruefully, thinking that Archie had been right when he called him a coward. “If it’s been to long to ever get closure, you know?”

“I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through, or what you are going through now. But Juggie, you don’t see how strong you already are. You _know_ how to be strong, because you’ve been doing that for your sister all her life. So I know you can do it for yourself.”

She looks at him. “You once told me that honesty and bravery were the same thing. So just be honest, and you’ll be brave,” she says firmly, her eyes boring into him. “I don’t know what you should do either, but I know that whatever choice it is, you’re entitled to it.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling and nodding. He can’t believe he was worried she’d run away from him, but he also can’t believe she hasn’t. “Thank you,” he whispers, shuffling forward to kiss her lightly.

“I want you to always tell me what I can do to help,” she whispers back, once he’s pulled away.

Despite everything, his mind is still in the gutter, and he smirks at her. She huffs, half in exasperation, half in amusement, but still reaches forward for his pants zipper. “If that’s what you want,” she says, in a little singsong voice.

Jughead catches her hand and laughs genuinely for the first time since dinner, a light warming starting to edge in around the black, and he thinks, also for the first time— _maybe it’ll be okay._

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He doesn’t really sleep.

Even with Betty next to him, he’s been running scenarios back and forth through his thoughts all night.

Sunrise doesn’t bring him any closer to a decision, but he has a nagging spot of advice from his sister that gives him an inkling. It already feels like years ago that she’d warned him not to _think_ and rather _just do,_ but he realizes, finally, and with an odd taste in his mouth, that he doesn’t actually have to find a verdict tonight.

He decides that he can see his father at the ceremony, and just follow what it is that he feels. Not think about the reaction beforehand and just see what happens. He wants to believe Betty when she said whatever he feels will be the valid choice for himself.

For once, Jughead gets out of bed before Betty, unable to lie there staring at the ceiling for a moment longer. He rolls out of bed and finds the wrinkled dress shirt he’d packed and gets out the ironing board.

He’s halfway through pressing it clean when he looks over and sees Betty sitting up in bed. “Is it weird that it’s a bit of a turn on to see you ironing a shirt?”

“Kind of,” he laughs. “It’s probably just your feminine mystique.”

“Ha, ha,” Betty says, stretching. She crawls to the end of the bed and sits there, her expression tightening. “How are you feeling?”

“Pink Floyd would call this comfortably numb,” he jokes, and she gives him a pointed look. He exhales. “I’m okay, I think. I’m still proud of my sister, and I’m excited to see her graduate. I just…I’ll figure out the rest of what I feel when I get there.”

“I think that’s good,” she says decisively, standing up. Something works across her face. “Living in the moment.”

There’s got to be something ironic about how falling in love with a fellow overthinker has made him want to do just that, but then she smiles at him, and he no longer cares to dwell.

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Still working with a combination of Betty’s planning and their unfamiliarity with a lay of the land, they get to the auditorium early. They don’t really mean to, because Jughead hadn’t been planning on having a conversation with his father before the ceremony, but as they collect their programs and find their seats, FP is already there.

He fixes them with a nervous smile and scoots down a seat so that there’s room for the two of them. Jughead can’t remember the last time he saw his dad in a tie, and that realization is what he wants to follow.

“Dad, can we talk?” He asks, in lieu of sitting down.

FP looks surprised, but nods and follows Jughead out of earshot. Other families are slowly trickling in, but the room is not quite busy enough that he can’t find a quiet spot. 

Even as he opens his mouth, he doesn’t really know what he’s about to say. “Look, I don’t want any drama today. This is JB’s day. So I just wanted to say this now—I’m not sure where the fuck I am with any of this. But…last night, I realized that cutting you out of my life never really helped me actually move on from anything. I haven’t had closure.”

Jughead inhales and exhales again. “I’ve just been carrying all this around with me,” he says lowly, “and I don’t want to. That doesn’t mean I know what to do about you. I don’t know if I should let you back into my life, Dad. I just don’t know.”

His father watches him carefully, in that observant and knowing way he always could. But there’s something else mixed in, and Jughead thinks it might be hope.

After a long moment and a clicking of his tongue, FP speaks. “You should know, I’m planning on moving back to Boston in a couple months. Your sister wants me there, and I can get a job with an old buddy of mine.”

This is more or less what he figured, once JB had said she’d asked their dad to move to Chicago, so this doesn’t surprise him.

“But—you and I, that’s up to you. It’s whatever you want, son,” FP says after another studying pause. “I owe you that much. I want to make amends, but I can do that by staying away from you, if that’s what you want.”

Jughead roves his eyes over his father, taking in the clean shave, the tucked in shirt, the tie. He does look healthy, probably a lot better than he ever remembers seeing him.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “I’m gonna need some time.”

That little spot of hope grows in his father’s eye, and he thinks, for now, this is enough. FP nods several times in quick succession, fighting back a grin.

“By the way, nice shave,” Jughead adds, cracking a small smile.

FP laughs, scrubbing at his jaw in a way Jughead does when he’s self-conscious. His expression grows a bit softer, but somehow more serious.

“You know, I read your book,” he says. “I don’t know where you two kids got your brains, because it sure as hell wasn’t from me. But, uh, even I can read between a couple lines. The part about his father an’ all. So just in case I don’t get the chance again, I want you to know, son. I’m sorry. I’m real sorry, for all I put you through.”

He nods, almost more to himself. “I know, Dad.”

Really, he’s always known that, but it’s one thing to whisper that reminder to himself in the dark of the night and it’s another to hear the words straight from his father.

A long pause stretches between them; he can tell his father has more he’d like to say, but is holding himself back, which Jughead appreciates. He doesn’t think he can handle much else right now, not when the auditorium is filling up a lot more rapidly now.

“We should take our seats,” he says, and FP’s shoulders rise with a breath, nodding.

Betty flashes them a smile as they fill their reserved row of chairs, silently asking him how it went with her eyes, though seems mollified by the fact that he’s not gathering up a storm in his fists again. He just shrugs at her, unable to describe how he’s feeling to himself, let alone her, and wraps his arm around the back of her chair in order to kiss her temple.

She smiles, and this time he doesn’t deny it when he sees pride reflected back at him. FP watches them out of the corner of his eye, his expression not far off from Betty’s.

After another half hour, a woman in a long, luminous robe walks out onto the stage, and the ceremony begins.

Jughead wasn’t sure what he’d feel watching his sister’s graduation, but he’d been vaguely concerned it would be envy. He hadn’t been able to put it into words until he’d admitted it to Betty last night, but he’s always secretly worried that his lack of his own graduation represented the stagnancy in his life.

But he’s a writer, and he supposes that means he puts too much weight on symbolism.

Betty was right when she said that no metaphor was that magical, and he knows now that nothing could give him closure but himself.

And as he watches his baby sister walk across the stage in her purple robe and move that gleaming, golden tassel right to left, he realizes he might be on his way there.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: _father and son_ by cat stevens (of course) (this is also the lyric at the top) (do not recommend listening to this on loop while writing about fathers and sons because you WILL cry), _american pie_ by don mclean, and _papa was a rolling stone_ by the temptations. 
> 
> this chapter in particular is one i've been equally nervous and excited to get into, because it's a complicated subject matter and while i'm not specifically a child of alcoholics, i did grow up with a parent with a dependency and understand it's a serious topic and really wanted to handle it well.
> 
> i've been building up to it with all the water stuff from the beginning, so i'm glad we're finally here. i honestly think this is my favorite chapter i've ever written. i have a million more authors notes in my head about it but i'll stop there. 
> 
> we're in the last stretch of this fic, and while i'm so excited to get to the epilogue in particular, i'm also already feeling a bit wistful. this fic has been a very personal exploration in a lot of ways and turned into something i never anticipated, so i just want to thank everyone for coming on this ride with me. it means so much!!
> 
> as a heads up, i'm heading out of town for a wedding tomorrow through the weekend, so i don't expect i'll have as much time as usual to write till then and chapter 18 might be a bit later than my usual updates!
> 
> in the mean time, pretty please drop me a note and let me know what you thought. your reviews mean the absolute fucking world to me and are v motivating.


	18. Chapter 18

_Strange you never knew_

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They chase the moon back home.

Though their road is eastern, Jughead wants the challenge, deciding they should drive through the night, maintaining if they trade off, they can do it safely.

Betty almost protests, because she wants more time with him and doesn’t want to rush the last leg of their journey, but then realizes he seems almost afraid there’s going to be some other dark surprise lurking around the corner and figures he’s trying to get out of Chicago before that can happen again.

Plus, he reminds them, they’ll have a truck loaded with the boxes filled with his sister’s most precious possessions, and he’s wary about putting them anywhere overnight, even when Betty offers to find another hotel with garage security.

JB, clearly still wracked with guilt, agrees readily, in some attempt to appease the twist in his lips whenever he looks at her. Betty thinks he’s not quite as mad as he’s trying to seem, because whenever JB turns away, Jughead just sighs and shares with Betty an ambivalent kind of smile, but thinks he’s allowed a cold shoulder towards his sister here and there.

And as much as she wishes they had more time, as dimly as Betty knows she doesn’t want to go home, she knows Jughead is ready to. He has that restless kind of bounce to his knee that speaks of impatience, and Betty remembers he’s been away from his own bed for over a month now.

So they load the truck, rest up while JB says her goodbyes to her friends, and then meet the road at dusk.

She knows he appreciates having her here, keeping her in the middle seat between the two Jones siblings, her fingers tightly laced with Jughead’s save for when he needs to maneuver the gearshift. When he transitions onto the passenger’s side, he holds her hand the whole way, even after he falls asleep with his forehead against the glass.

They’ve finished passing back through Ohio, and Jughead is almost deliberately dead to the world now. JB wasn’t quite as jumpy through the state as Jughead had been, but her mood shifted too, and Betty drove the way through. They switch under the low eye of the moon, the two-lane road quiet safe for the chirping of crickets and distant thrum of cars.

As she slides into the driver’s seat and pulls back onto the road, JB glances over to Betty twice before clicking her tongue in lieu of clearing her throat, a move Betty has noticed all the Jones use.

“I don’t want you to hate me either, you know,” she says quietly, just above a whisper. “I mean, Jughead…I think he’ll forgive me. When he’s ready. He always does, even when he probably shouldn’t. But I know how he feels about you, and that means I care about your opinion too.”

“I don’t hate you, I promise,” Betty replies after a moment, trying to weigh her words, even as JB’s own scatter distractingly in her thoughts. _I know how he feels about you,_ she’d said. Betty tries not to grimace. _Great, how about you let me in on the secret too?_ “You hurt him, though.”

“I know,” JB says tremulously, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth to chew on it. Betty watches JB’s hands wrap around the wheel a fraction tighter. “I know I fucked up.”

“And I think that’s what matters to him,” Betty says kindly, giving JB a soft smile.

She turns and looks at Betty for as long as the road will allow, her eyes scanning over Betty’s face, almost looking for a lie. She looks so much like Jughead in the moment; that touch of wariness, her mouth pinched with a thought. And then her whole expression smoothes out, replaced with a secretive, meaningful kind of grin.

“I’m glad he has you,” she says finally, but almost like she’s saying something else, something much gentler. Her tone is so layered that Betty doesn’t know how to respond, but she doesn’t have to.

Knowingly, JB just reaches across her, turns up the volume a hair, and lets the road do the rest of the work.

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Betty finally falls asleep to the mumblings of JB and Jughead, who has eventually woken. In her state of drowsiness, she almost doesn’t hear the conversation, but it seems to be mostly technical discussions of time spent, left, and how to use the in-between.

She doesn’t catch any of it, however, as slumber pulls her down.

Later, her eyes attempt to flutter open when she feels the engine cut off beneath her. They’ve stopped for gas and she offers to check on the engine, see how it’s faring along such a heavy drive even though she knows it’s holding well, but Jughead just hushes her stirrings and draws her against his side, where he presses a soft kiss onto her temple.

She tries to enjoy the hum of him alongside her, his arm draped over her shoulders, even his lips, fleeting as they are along her skin. She wants to wake herself to solder the memory down for later, but exhaustion is it’s own lullaby, and Jughead’s thumb rubbing into her arm draws her back into dreams.

When she finally does wake, rubbing her eyes against the warm sunlight streaming in through the windshield, she thinks she recognizes where they are. The realization pangs loudly, like someone dropping a metal pan in an empty room.

After all, being a mechanic, Betty knows most of the gas stations within a thirty-mile radius of the town.

JB stands outside the car, her eyes out on nothing as she holds the gas pump in place. If she focuses hard enough, Betty can hear the truck swallowing and gulping down the fuel.

Next to her, Jughead murmurs a soft, “Hey,” and brushes a lock of hair out of her face. She twists in her seat in order to shuffle closer to him. “We’re almost back to Riverdale,” he says, after a beat. His voice is resigned.

“I know,” she replies at a whisper, burying her head into his side.

“You could stay with us,” he says, but without any real heat to it, as if knowing the answer already. “Come on to Boston. We can figure everything else out when we get there.”

“You’re not going to war, Juggie.” Betty smiles up at him, appreciating his attempt anyway. “We’ll be together again soon, I meant what I said about visiting in a few weeks. We’re not going to be that far apart, not really.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, blowing out a breath. His eyes steel slightly before her. “I’m just…Betty, I—I’m going to miss you.”

Just like with JB earlier, it sounds like something else. Betty’s starting to think she knows what it is, but if she’s not ready to say it herself, he probably isn’t either.

And with that realization, Betty knows it’s different than before.

Now, they have the time to get there.

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They stop a block in front of Betty’s house as requested; on the off chance Alice Cooper has her eagle-eye trained on them from behind a curtain, Betty wants to give them as much time alone as they can for their parting.

The wisest thing to do is to just have them drop her at the garage, where her car is, but all Betty wants to do is crawl under her sheets and close her eyes again, and the idea of going back to the garage honestly makes her stomach curl, so a side-street it is.

Jughead gets out to let Betty slide across the passenger seat, and closes the door behind her to give them a little bit of privacy from his sister, who deliberately turns the radio up and keeps her eyes ahead of her. He embraces Betty at once, his nose flush against her neck.

“Betty…” He starts, but immediately trails off. He tries again, after swallowing. “This whole week was kind of a shit show, but you being there… It made all the difference,” he whispers along her skin, and then pulls back just enough to kiss her deeply, his thumb rubbing at the crest of her chin. She tries to draw out the kiss as long as she can, opening her mouth to him and letting him nip at her bottom lip.

When she tastes something salty mingling with their kiss, she shifts back, quickly wiping at her cheek. He looks pained to realize she’s crying, and begins to try to talk her out of the tears, but she shakes her head and just throws her arms over his shoulders.

“It’s not goodbye,” she says quietly. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

His whole face melts with affection and he leans forward to peck her with another quick kiss, which quickly moves to all spots of her face, as if cataloguing them for later. Her lips, her cheeks, her jaw.

Afterwards, he presses his forehead against hers and closes his eyes. “Yeah. It’s not goodbye,” he echoes, almost as a reminder, almost something for himself.

Eventually, the birds overhead are greeting the late morning, the streets are loud with children out of school, and he piles back into the truck. He waves at her from the window, his lips pressed together in a sad kind of smile, but a smile all the same.

She watches the truck disappear down the block as a summer breeze reaches forward and rustles at her clothes. Her hair, the ponytail long shed sometime during the drive, whips around her cheeks like the parting kisses he gave her.

 _I love you,_ she tells the wind.

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She barely gets her keys down in the bowl by the door before her mother is rounding the corner, eyes blazing, her heels clicking ominously against the hardwood like the warning rattle before a snakebite.

“Elizabeth Cooper, it’s about damn time!” Her mother hisses, pulling up to an immediate halt and, as if in the last moment reconsidering her choice of power moves, gestures forcefully for Betty to follow her back into the kitchen.

Betty groans, eyes on the ceiling, but figures she might as well get this over with. As she comes around towards the kitchen’s view, Alice Cooper has one hand on her hip and the other drumming impatiently against the granite countertop, clearly gunning for a fight.

“Where the _hell_ have you been? How could you just take off like that, with no warning? Leaving your bedroom a mess, closing the garage like you’d run out in a fire? Ignoring our calls, not even a note? Your sister was half-convinced you’d driven off a cliff!”

“My room is my own space, and I knew the garage was in good hands with Joaquin. And I’m an _adult,_ Mom, as you so often love to tell me. If I want to go somewhere, I think I can,” Betty explains tersely, half-wishing to hold her patience, but already knowing it’s fruitful against her mother.

Besides, she almost rejoices the opportunity to argue; at least it’ll distract her from her mooning over Jughead. There are few things in the world that solidify Betty’s backbone like accusations from her mother, after all.

“That’s not what being an adult means!” Alice says sharply, with all the implied air of _honestly, Elizabeth._ “The opposite, in fact. Being an adult means you have responsibilities, means you need to give _notice_ if you’re planning on skipping town. It means you can’t just up and leave whenever it pleases you!”

“Oh, really?” Betty returns, narrowing her eyes and taking a step forward. “You wanna go there? Where have you been, then? This whole past month, you’ve only been here what, one week? You haven’t even met Jughead because you’ve been gone so much!”

“ _Jug_ -head,” Alice repeats with a scoff, taking a large, rallying breath. “Oh yes, Polly told me all about that boy—”

“That _boy_ is someone I love,” Betty interrupts, unwilling to hear what is sure to be her mother’s practiced tirade against a person she’s never even met, let alone be forced to defend the fact that he’s actually her boyfriend. “And you would know why if you’d ever been around to meet him!”

“Love?” Her mother echoes, with a high pitched kind of laugh that is grating and pitying. “Elizabeth, please. You cannot love a boy you’ve known for so little time. Be reasonable.”

Betty feels her hackles rising, and she leans forward, her fingers curled around the edge of the countertop. “Again, _how_ could you know that? Forget meeting him, you haven’t even been here to ask about my life. You want to talk to _me_ about taking off, when that’s all you’ve been doing since Dad died!”

Alice’s mouth opens and closes once, her eyes briefly bewildered. “That’s different,” she says, huffing. “I am an ad—”

“You’re an adult,” Betty finishes for her, half-hating the smugness that fills her voice but letting it happen anyway. Alice’s mouth pinches, realizing she’s been played into the hand. “Right. So what’s your point again? You’re allowed to leave whenever you want because you’re an adult, but I can’t because…what, exactly?”

“I’m traveling for _work_ ,” Alice says immediately, but in that exaggerated kind of way that she becomes when she’s starting to feel cornered. “Broadening the _Register’s_ scope, covering national events. Attending conferences. Not gallivanting off on some kind of ridiculous, Cassaday-inspired tryst!”

“God, Mom! You’re making it seem like we killed a man and fled town,” Betty heaves, her fingers tightening reflexively around the counter. “This wasn’t _Badlands_. We went to Chicago for Jughead’s little sister’s college graduation. And then we came back. _I’m_ back,” she adds, feeling her throat choke a little around the word.

She is back. He is gone, and she is here.

And for the first time, she realizes it.

Her heart gives a hollow kind of thump, though she doesn’t know why—she’d known it was coming, she knows they’ll talk as close to every day as they can, and she’s mature enough that she can handle a little bit of separation. No, it’s the fact that she’s back _here_ , in the house that is too empty, with the room she did not paint, and the bed that will feel too big again tonight.

And tomorrow she will go back to the garage filled with ghosts.

None of it feels right, and knows now it hasn’t for a while.

Her mother clearly catches this, her face softening as she looks at Betty, her eyes raking across the knot in her brows. Her shoulders relax slightly, though her hand does not move from it’s controlled spot on her hip.

“Betty,” she sighs, which is a good sign. If she’s no longer _Elizabeth,_ Alice is losing her wind. “What’s really going on here? What was all—” She gestures vaguely in the air, her hand finally leaving the statement spot on a jutted hip. “— _this_ really about? This was so unlike you.”

“And what am I _supposed_ to _be like,_ Mom?” Betty asks softly, sinking onto a nearby counter stool. Her hand cradles her forehead as she closes her eyes, finding her breath, the will to fight completely gone now. “Who am I supposed to be? A good little girl who always follows the rules and never says no?”

Alice’s expression changes fully at that, her lips parting in surprise, her eyes widening.

Betty takes it as her opening.

“What if I’m not her, Mom? What if I grew up and wanted something different then the life Dad left for me? I mean, do you ever think that maybe we’ve been… We’ve been holding on, when we should’ve been letting go?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Alice asks, her voice still guarded, but lowered all the same.

“Dad’s been gone a year, but I think we’ve both just been clinging to an image of the way things were before he died,” Betty explains, finding the truth as she says it, and as it comes to her, she realizes how much she’s been looking for the words until now. Her mother looks shocked silent. “The garage was keeping me in grief, but it was the same trap I’ve always had, too. It was the _idea_ I’d had of what my mourning should look like, how I _should_ honor Dad’s memory, how I _should_ stay close by. All the things I thought I should do but didn’t want to.”

Alice blinks, and then, her neck still high in the air, crosses the kitchen and silently gathers all the things she’ll need for a glass of wine. She uncorks a started bottle from the fridge and pours herself a helping of white wine, taking a sip before turning back to Betty. A whole minute must tick by as she sizes her daughter up.

“Well, I’m seeing why you turned down Trevor now,” she says finally, and with something of an actual smile, much to Betty’s complete surprise.

Because, really? That whole speech about grief and death and _that’s_ what her mother brings up? Her ex-boyfriend?

“What? God, for the last time, Mom, I do not want to talk about Trev,” Betty groans, burying her face in her hands.

“Clearly,” Alice says, her tone of amusement momentarily throwing Betty for another loop. “Considering you’ve never let me get more than two seconds into any attempt to have a conversation. Honestly, Betty, did you think I have some kind of ancestral dowry stashed up in the attic? This isn’t Victorian England, I was never going to force your hand.”

She pours Betty a similar glass of wine and pushes it across the counter top. “Believe it or not, Betty, I want you to be happy,” she says, almost rolling her eyes. “And I also believe you’re old enough to determine who will or won’t make you that way. All I wanted was a little context for why you broke off a relationship with a boy you’ve known most of your life and claimed to be very happy with up until that point. But I think I’m getting it now.”

“Well, I’m confused. Why are you bringing this up?” Betty asks, eying the wine warily.

“Because I understand,” Alice says simply, taking a healthy sip of her drink. Her eyes are sharp but honest. “It’s gauche to speak ill of the dead, Betty, but you know your father wasn’t a perfect man, despite his attempts to appear that way. It wasn’t always bad, but we probably got married too young, and I know I agreed to that because…I felt it’s what I should do, if I wanted my life to fit a certain mould—even if sometimes it felt like an idea of a life, not an actual one. Or does that not sound familiar?”

Betty stares at her, unable to process what shocks her more—the confession itself, or the fact that she is openly relating to her mother.

Alice takes a long pause, one finger gently tracing the rim of the wine stem. She seems to be working through a thought, or perhaps finding the courage to say it outright.

“I don’t want to fight with you, despite evidence to the contrary. Because you might be right, baby,” Alice says after another long moment of running her eyes over her daughter’s face. Her voice is soft, nearly kind, but still withdrawn, still controlled, as she always is. “About my…traveling. And probably your own, too. Maybe…” She takes another breath. “Maybe neither of us belong in this house anymore.”

She pauses there, and it sits between them heavily, filling the whole space. Betty gapes at her mother.

“So then the obvious question then becomes…” Alice leans forward. “What are we going to do about it?”

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The next afternoon, a knock sounds on wood, a web of black hair appears around Betty’s door, and for a fleeting, gut-dropping moment, Betty thinks maybe it could be Jughead.

Instead, it’s Veronica. It should’ve been obvious by the blue manicure curled around the edge of her door, but she’d been distracted.

“I’m kidnapping you,” Veronica says, now striding into the room and not bothering to put her purse down, which Betty knows is as if to say she means business. “Since you’re clearly so malleable to the concept.”

She throws Betty a pointed look, but her smirk belies any real bite. “How’d you know I was here?” Betty asks, putting her book down by her side. She’d texted Veronica this morning to let her know she was back in town, but other than that, hadn’t revealed she was taking another personal day.

Veronica half-rolls her eyes. “Called the garage, got no answer, used the power of deduction. Come on, girl. My firm is representing the town in the re-zoning of the old gas station across the way from your garage, so if I ask you one question about the area, I can charge our lunch to the company card. And I’m in desperate need of a play-by-play.”

“As a burgeoning lawyer, we should probably have a talk about ethics,” Betty says, grinning and swinging her legs off the bed.

Her best friend waves a dismissive hand. “Leave that to me. Now, shall we, or do you need to be coerced?”

“I’m coming, just let me put a real shirt on,” Betty replies, crossing the room to her closet and quickly changing out of her lounge clothes. Re-emerging in a cotton pink shirt and her favorite pair of cutoffs, she grabs her bag from her vanity and quickly checks her phone for any messages.

There’s one from Jughead, and he’s sent a picture of JB comically sprawled out on the floor amongst her many boxes, her hands covering her eyes.

Underneath, he’s sent an eye roll emoji and the comment that _she misses you more than I do right now._

When she looks up, Veronica is watching her carefully, an eyebrow arched and smiling slightly. “Jughead?” She guesses, in a smug kind of voice that Betty wants to hate, but cannot quite.

“Maybe,” Betty says, shoving her phone into her pocket. Veronica’s eyes trace the movement, falling onto Betty’s fraying cutoffs curiously, clearly picking up on the deliberate choice of dressing down. “What? They’re comfortable.”

“Vintage is always fun,” Veronica chirps knowingly, before spinning on her heel and leading Betty down the stairs and out of the house.

“On the subject of vintage,” Betty says, sliding into the passenger’s seat of Veronica’s classic, boxy black Mercedes. “You’re going to have to find a mechanic in LA to maintain this one. Want me to call around? See if I can find a good one?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Veronica says, turning on the ignition. “But that would be great, sweetie, thank you. And at least I’ll finally feel validated in owning a convertible, right? No more whining through the winters. Speaking of which,” she adds, reaching up onto a button near the rearview mirror. A moment later, the roof of the car drops down as Veronica fiddles in her purse for an actual silk scarf to tie around her hair.

“Okay, Isadora Duncan,” Betty clucks, to which Veronica throws back a laugh.

“Hush, I have to maintain my blowout,” she replies, tugging on her cat-eye sunglasses and now looking particularly the part of a silver screen icon in a way that only Veronica Lodge could pull off without irony.

Betty has spent the past day missing Jughead, someone who is actually hundreds of miles away—but as her best friend pulls off her street and onto the black road, she finds herself missing her already.

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.

They bicker a little over lunch spots—Veronica wants something healthy, but a week away from Pop’s was possibly too long, and she’s craving a grilled cheese like no other. After reminding her that Pop’s also serves salads, Veronica acquiesces, and they pull into the diner parking lot.

After settling into their usual booth and placing their orders, Veronica turns her eyes onto Betty sharply, lacing her fingers underneath her chin and settling forward on her elbows. “So, Bonnie. Let’s talk about Clyde and the thrilling tale of your wild escape,” she says, eyes bulging over the word _wild_.

“Why is everyone making this out to be so dramatic?” Betty whines, stirring her ginger ale with her straw. “I just…took a little impromptu road trip. That’s all.”

“Girl, save me the platitudes, we both know that wasn’t just it,” Veronica replies, not missing a beat.

Betty sighs and jabs her drink with the straw one more time, giving up denial. “I just…I couldn’t do it anymore, V. Any of it. The garage, that house… It was like I finally—snapped,” she says quietly, dropping her eyes to the tabletop. “I saw my train leaving, and I wanted…to be on it.”

“Don’t get me wrong, a spontaneous road trip with your boy sounds so romantic,” Veronica says gently, reaching across the table to touch Betty’s hand comfortingly. “I was just surprised. And a touch worried. I know you’re only impulsive when you’re cornered.”

“Well, that’s how I felt,” Betty admits, finally meeting Veronica’s eye. “Cornered. I still do, kind of. I just…I think I know what I have to do now, which is to sell the garage and go back to publishing. I talked about it with my mom yesterday and she actually agreed it was time. And I somehow thought that would it…I don’t know, at least it would feel _easier,_ like acknowledging it and having my family’s support. But everything still feels the same.”

“The hardest choices are,” Veronica sighs, one finger tapping on the table. “I mean, look at me. I’m moving three thousand miles away, and only because I know I have to try it for myself. But it was a horrible decision to make, to choose to be so far away from everyone I love and the best home I’ve known. Knowing it’s right doesn’t make it easy.”

“Thanks, Dumbledore,” Betty says, smiling slightly. Veronica rolls her eyes.

“Bookending soliloquy or not, it’s still true,” she replies, but her smile is soft. She leans forward again, a thought wrestling across her face. “I just wish you’d told me before crossing state lines. It wasn’t a big deal so much as it was—well, a surprise, coming from you. You schedule our pedicures two months out, after all. And did you know that I actually had to ask _Cheryl_ for information on you? I mean, Betty. Your own sister didn’t know as much as my ex, which was a bit of a shock.”

“I only told her because I needed her to cover babysitting the twins for me, and Cheryl’s not judgmental,” Betty sighs.

“And I am?” Veronica counters sharply, bristling. Betty throws her a look. “Okay, obviously, _aesthetically_ I am. But so is Cheryl, and I’d never judge _you,_ especially not for chasing something as pure as self-care and/or as adorable as burgeoning love.”

 _Already burgeoned,_ Betty corrects in her thoughts, but even if she were to muster the courage to say it aloud again, their food arrives, the wafting smell of diner grease briefly distracting her. Eventually, Betty shrugs.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I know I should’ve told you. It just all happened really fast, and maybe I did it wrong, but…I’m glad I went. Because… If I never left, I might’ve not realized I didn’t want to come back,” she says softly, picking at a fry.

“I know,” Veronica replies after a moment, sighing. “The fact that you’re not at the garage today kind of implied that. So, what are you going to do?”

“Remember Adam?” She nods. “Well, he and his dad are going to buy the garage. I emailed them this morning about setting up a meeting. At first, the idea seemed like…I mean, it felt like betraying my family. And it feels so obvious _now,_ but before, I couldn’t see it. I just realized holding on was holding me back. And _don’t_ say I told you so,” Betty adds, because a meaningful look has immediately appeared on Veronica’s face.

“Clearly, I don’t have to,” Veronica says slyly, taking a bite of her chicken salad. And then she smiles. “Real talk, I’m proud of you. And running the risk of sounding a little too Carrie Bradshaw, every woman deserves to be the leading lady of their own life.”

“Put that in _Cosmo,_ ” Betty quips, but is grinning widely, silently agreeing with her.

“You’ve been spending too much time with that interloper. His sarcasm does not become you, Elizabeth,” Veronica sniffs before returning the grin. “While I’m channeling Carrie, though—shall we get into the scheduled boy-related juncture of our conversation?”

Betty can’t fight the blooming feeling in her chest, nodding. “I think I’m gonna go visit him in a few weeks. And…I mean, I know he’s going to tell me to apply everywhere, but I think I want to focus on the publishers in Boston. Not just for him, either—I liked the city and didn’t really get much time to experience it, and I have all those job connections there already.”

“Logical,” Veronica says approvingly, even as she blows out a breath. “Though I was actually talking about myself. I have…news.”

“Oh?” Betty looks up from her sandwich.

“Archie…” Veronica trails off, looking nervous, or perhaps choosing her words very carefully. “He’s going to move to LA too. He actually brought up the idea on our first date,” she’s quick to add, particularly because Betty’s eyebrows have shot way up. “Well before he knew about my plans whatsoever. His industry is there, and it just makes a lot of sense for him to give it a try while he’s still young.”

“Wow,” Betty says, absorbing this. “I mean, that’s good, right? We’re happy about this?”

Veronica nods, unable to suppress a fluttering kind of smile. “We talked it over last week, and decided it’d be nice to both move to a new place knowing at least _one_ person,” she says. “And…this way we can actually see what we could really be.”

Wondering why Veronica had looked so worried to tell her when this is nothing but good news, Betty beams over at her best friend. “That’s wonderful, V.”

“It is, isn’t it?” She asks rhetorically, almost to herself. And then her eyes turn back onto Betty, a slight calculation being done. “So, Jughead didn’t tell you any of this?”

“Jughead knew?” Betty repeats, shaking her head. “No, he didn’t say anything. But he’s been really cagey about the topic of Archie since—wait—is this what they fought about?”

“It’s not really my place to gossip,” Veronica says slowly, and Betty actually laughs out loud, because that’s a ridiculous statement coming from her. Veronica throws her a sharp, offended look. “I don’t have all the details, I mean, and I’m not going to extrapolate on information I don’t have. I just know that Jughead took it hard to learn his best friend wanted to move so far away.”

“Well, yeah, obviously _I_ get that,” Betty says, though privately curious as to why Jughead hadn’t shared that himself. There hadn’t really been time anyway, save for that initial drive out to Chicago.

And even as Veronica turns the subject onto zoning laws and how utterly bored she is by the paperwork, there’s a roving thought in her eye, something watchful, knowing, and Betty thinks that might be more to the story than she’s letting on.

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**JUNE**

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Much like before, Betty sees a train leaving, and once again gets on.

However, this time, it’s much more literal.

The horizon of Boston lopes around the corner of the track, several tall, gleaming downtown buildings winking at her through the window. It’s not a skyline unlike many others; certainly not as famed as that first glimpse of New York City, for example, but nevertheless, her heart catches at the sight of it, tugged on by an unseen hook behind her lungs.

She checks her watch; the train is arriving on schedule, and that means she’ll be seeing her boyfriend soon, for the first time in three weeks. It’s amazing how fast that same amount of time went by before, but ever since he’d dropped her back in Riverdale and turned onto the road for Boston, it’s like time had begun mocking her. These past weeks have moved by at such a glacial pace she’d double-checked her calendar just to be sure.

Betty misses him, but in a way, she also doesn’t, because they’ve been talking every day. There’s not always time for the hour-long phone calls she loves, but when there’s not, they text, even when Jughead starts grumbling about the ancient Egyptians having fewer hieroglyphics than millennial emojis.

Jughead is picking her up at Back Bay Station, the closest Amtrak stop to his place, after his weekly appointment in family therapy. He’d tried to cancel it on her behalf when they’d realized her train was getting in the same day, but he hadn’t gotten very far into the offer, knowing what her response would be.

As her train slows to a stop, Betty barely makes time for her typical thrice-over out of excitement for seeing him again. She haphazardly throws her loose things into a bag before grabbing her bag from overhead and rushing out onto the track.

She thinks they must spot each other at the same moment; he’s standing against a wall, his hands stuffed into his pockets, but in a way she’s sure belies fidgeting. The smile that slowly unfurls across his lips is that familiar look he gets when a thought clicks on the page; a dawning little look that is equal parts awed and sly.

Betty throws her arms around him; he stumbles back slightly, laughing and wrapping his arms around her waist in order to haul her up into the air against him. His lips are on her at once, and she feels the sigh of relief move all the way from his lungs to hers.

She’d known she missed him, but it’s not until she’s in his embrace and kissing him that she realizes quite how much. Though it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise—she loves him, after all, and nearly screams it at him right here and now.

He pulls back slightly, his shoulders still rising and falling with that quiet relief, as if maybe he’d thought she wouldn’t have come until now. “Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” she repeats, as is their tradition, and kisses him again.

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.

.

After they’ve indulged to make out on a crowded train platform for a few minutes like some _uncanny valley_ version of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, they both come back into their senses. The track is a crowded, humid space, steam rising off trains and people weave around them impatiently and Betty suddenly wants to get away from them all. 

Clearly, Jughead is of the same mind as he reaches for her hand and leads her away from the train station, shrugging. With the other hand, he makes a play for her suitcase handle, which she bats away.

“How are you? How’re the Joneses? She asks, her mouth finding a grin. 

“Keeping up,” he returns, scoffing. “I mean, literally, I guess. Therapy today, and all.”

Betty nods. “How’d the session go? You obviously don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, though.”

“No, it’s fine. I can talk about it. It was…you know. Heavy. JB cried, my dad choked through his words, I stared at a corner while I talked, etcetera. We talked a lot about JB’s graduation and why she’d sprung Dad on me. Our therapist thinks that she was acting out of the security to be rebellious that I gave her; somehow made it seem like I should be _proud_ of the fact that she felt safe enough to be selfish.”

But despite his words, he doesn’t actually sound begrudging as he says this; in fact, he does sound a little proud, probably in spite of himself.

Betty blinks, considering this. “Well, I can kind of see that point. You had to grow up so fast, but JB didn’t. And I think we always see our twenties as this age of finding maturity, but I know my very early-twenties felt more teenage than anything else. So combinations of all that—she’s still just a kid.”

He nods. “I guess so. JB always operates in this weird middle zone of constantly being nine years old in my head and also being this kind of ageless, post-dimensional, very annoying imp whose purpose in life is to vaguely haunt every reincarnation of me.”

“Still sounds like every nine year old, honestly,” Betty laughs, which, after a moment of deliberation, Jughead seems to agree with. They step onto the escalator that leads them off the platform, moving to stand single file for the people who want to pass them, their hands still linked.

“Yeah. And I mean, it was an interesting way to think about it. I was still pretty mad at her this month, because I just couldn’t understand how she thought _surprising_ me with Dad would be ever work. But it weirdly made sense, what the therapist said, if I thought about it as her being kind of the brat she’s always been, stubbornly trying to force Dad and I to agree on things.”

He sighs, continuing. “Not her best moments, but coming from the right place, of wanting to keep the family together. It did all somehow made me feel a bit better, because I could understand it more.”

“I think that’s the way therapy is supposed to work,” Betty says, reminiscing on the years of only vaguely successful attempts by her mother over the years. “It’s a code breaker before it’s anything else. Understanding things so you can move past them.”

He nods. “Makes sense. But it’s still a lot every time. Like I said: heavy. We’ll see how the next one goes.”

She gets the sense that’s where he wants to leave the conversation, so Betty doesn’t press further. They reach the back station exit, and Betty glances around for the truck. “Did you park on the street?”

A look of guilt passes over Jughead’s face. “Well, my dad can’t get another driver’s license for another six years, and he lives all the way out in Framingham, so my sister took the truck to drive him home. He takes the commuter train most of the time, but the therapy is kind of raw, and I think they both didn’t want to be alone. It’s not a long walk to my place, but we could always take a cab.”

“The walk is fine!” Betty reassures him. “I just had thought, since you said you wanted to pick me up. But it’s so nice out, and we can go along the pretty tree-lined streets. You live in my favorite part of the city.”

His nose wrinkles. “What, the South End? Betty, we need to talk about your taste levels.”

“Okay, well, I love the part right _before_ it. Back Bay is very nice,” she corrects, sighing. He grins toothily and start winding around the back side of the station. “And the South End isn’t so bad anyway. So…wait, you guys only have the one car, then? Between the three of you?”

He looks thoughtful. “I mean, I hadn’t thought of it that way; I’d just been counting me and JB. But I guess with Dad back in the picture, yeah. He sold his own car a while ago, again with the no driving thing. But our lives are hardly so agrarian that it’s ever a problem; most of the time we get by fine with just the one truck. We’ve got public transit to spare.”

“Yeah, but…you’re dating a mechanic. What’ll it do my reputation?” She says teasingly, wrapping her free hand around his arm. “And Boston can be a drivable city as I remember. And you know…I have this old, junky black Camaro I’ve been fixing up with Joaquin in our spare time. We got it at this vintage parts auction down in Yonkers last year, when I really needed a project to distract myself. It was basically a heap of scrap metal when we got it, but it’s finally looking almost like a real car again. Should drive real nice, too. I could…well, I’d have to talk to Joaquin first, because he’s done some of the work too, but he already _has_  his own vintage muscle car, and—”

Jughead stops dead in his tracks, despite it being in the middle of a crowded street. “Wait, wait. You’re not talking about giving me a car, are you?”

She turns to face him fully, one of her hands running up his arm as she smiles up at him. “Well, I was thinking it would be a birthday present. It wouldn’t be ready till October anyway.”

He huffs. “Again, you cannot give me a ca—wait, how do you know when my birthday is? Damnit, did JB tell you? I was just starting to trust her with this shit again—or oh, was it Archie? He can’t keep a goddamn secret for the life of—”

“Juggie, Juggie,” she interrupts, laughing. “I’ve seen your driver’s license, remember? No one told me.”

Privately, she thinks about how good he’d look behind the wheel of this sleek black Camaro; Marlon Brando on a midnight ride, tongue in his cheek, grinning at her across the chrome wheel. A little tug of desire hooks behind her navel, and clearly worms it’s way up to her face, because the look he’s giving her now is one of playfully studying suspicion.

He harrumphs, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, deliberating. “You’d have to let me buy it from you.”

“No! It’d be your present,” she insists, though she’s starting to wonder if his reaction to the mention of his birthday is cause for her to back off. She knows she can be pushy when she’s excited. “Kind of ruins the surprise, but I know you don’t like them anyway, so…”

He runs a hand down his face. “Betty, it’s a whole _car._ I couldn’t possibly—”

“We paid like, nothing for it. And I’d been fixing it up because I wanted some escapism, something to work through grief with, after my dad died, so what else am I going to do with it?”

“Sell it,” he says emphatically, but clearly with the awareness that he is losing this argument. “Again, to me, if you really want.”

Betty sighs. The fact that he’s offering to buy it probably means he is interested in it, but she’s not going to force anything onto him. “Okay, if it’s going to make you uncomfortable, I’ll drop it. Honest.”

Jughead raises an eyebrow at her, as if surprised she’s letting it go already. Clearly, he knows her better than she realized.

She takes a deep breath.“But I’ll say this, because really, I don’t want to go through the hassle of trying to sell it, even to you. The car represents too much; it’s got too much of… _me_ in it to really sell. I’d much rather it go to a good home. And this way, I can keep an eye on it, because I think the carburetor is always going to be a little finicky. I _want_ you to have it. And I can tell the truck has been with you through a lot, but…maybe you deserve to make some new memories.”

That seems to be the right thing to say, because Jughead’s brow briefly furrows before smoothing and melting. “I’ll think about it,” he says finally, but in a voice of acceptance. “Might not be so bad, having a second car. I mean, but there’s parking to think about. Shaving ice off one windshield in the dead morning of winter is annoying enough. I don’t have a garage. This isn’t Riverdale.”

Betty hadn’t considered that. She thinks she has something of a solution, but she’s not ready to announce it yet. Not until the final pieces are put into play, or at least until things feel surer.

 _“Anyway,”_ he says categorically, clearly wanting to change the subject. “I was thinking we could drop your bags, and then I could show you the sights?”

“I lived in Boston for a summer, remember?” She says, grinning. “I don’t need to go on another Duck Tour.”

“Oh my god, Duck Tours,” he scoffs, “How lowly you must think of me. No, Betts, you lived outside the city. This is Boston proper. We’re going to do this right. I’m gonna show you a good time.”

There’s something in his voice that’s a little wavering, but determined all the same. She gets the sense that he really wants her to have a full experience, and though he’d probably never admit it out loud for fear of looking clingy, she guesses it’s because he’d like her to keep coming back.

They take the scenic walk to his apartment, if albeit the longer way. Truthfully, the South End is a lot nicer than reputation would’ve lead her to believe, though she’s sure standard gentrification has played a part in that.

She’s always liked the bricks of the east coast, even though bricks are almost self-contradictory as the lone material that cannot withstand tremors in the earth. But here, in the land that doesn’t shake, these buildings stand sturdy and solid, these buildings have stood tall for over a century, and there’s something comforting about that.

Jughead’s building is unassuming, his little apartment hanging over a first floor nail salon. He shoulders his way in through a slightly sticky door, looking slightly bashful, and then beckons her inside. “It’s not much,” he says, scratching behind his ear. “Um, and still kind of a mess with my sister here. But—”

“It’s adorable,” Betty says honestly, beaming around at the space. It is small, with an open-plan kitchen to living room, and sparsely decorated, but meaningfully so. Framed old movie posters, books that hold a presence, little objects that speak to a Jughead that might be more magpie-like than he’d first appear. On a bookshelf, way up top, she thinks she spots a familiar-looking little bottle of body wash.

His smile is hopefully hesitant. “Yeah?”

“I love it,” she says, and what she means is, _I love you._ She thinks about saying it here, finally, but there's a secret thrill in wanting to wait for the right moment; she didn’t get to wait for much with him, had to act so quickly on her feelings while she thought she could. And now, she relishes drawing out the rest of their moments, savoring them, holding them long against her tongue to taste.

So instead, she wraps her arms around his neck, kissing him again now that they have a moment alone, finally off the street, but he doesn’t let her linger there long.

“Hey, we’ve got time for that,” he chuckles against her mouth. “I want to take you around, remember?”

She actually whines, but allows him to step away and pull her suitcase behind a door—because he’s right. If she wants to wait to tell him she loves him, she can wait a little longer to undress him too.

_We’ve got time for that._

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.

After she changes out of her travel clothes and puts away a few essentials, Jughead takes her to a small sandwich shop called Charlie’s for lunch, a little restaurant tucked away in Back Bay a few blocks away.

“I know it’s no Pop’s,” Jughead says, as they’re seated. The restaurant is littered with photographs from all the celebrities that have eaten there. “But this place is a classic, I promise. Great grilled cheese, I looked into it,” he adds pointedly.

And it is. Jughead looks immeasurably pleased that she enjoys her lunch, and then they take the T over to the museum district. The Isabella Stewart Gardner museum proves to be her favorite, a converted castle that had been shipped over from Europe and filled with all the art an heiress could hoard. The atrium garden is beautiful and Jughead kisses her against a column until a guard loudly scolds them.

Afterwards, they head to Newbury Street, a place that Jughead claims he normally deems to posh to be spotted upon, but says he knows Betty’s tastes are a bit more clean cut than his own and she might find a shop she likes. Truthfully, Betty is familiar with the area, and he’s right, there is a store or two she hopes is still there, so she doesn’t complain.

Newbury is as she remembered it; towards the park, the shops are the highest of ends, so they head west instead. He says he doesn’t mind accompanying her inside a couple places, and she finds most of what she ends up drawn to is a bit more dressed down than most of her current wardrobe, save for her favorite cutoffs. Jughead jokes it’s his influence, but she thinks there might be something to that.

Or, at least, something about the way he relaxes her and the way she has noticed it reflected in the way she has begun pulling from the back of her closet. She’s still herself; she still likes to look nice, still enjoys a pink blush, a baby blue wink, but there’s been a slight shift. Like maybe she doesn’t want to always be pointed collars and crisp skirts, because otherwise you’re smoothing out wrinkles all day.

And she’s been smoothing out wrinkles her whole life. Maybe she deserves a break.

It’s high summer and dusk is arriving slowly over the street, but she’s still got a sandwich rattling around in her stomach, so they decide to browse the shops until they start to close. Jughead lingers in front of a furniture showroom window, his eyes fixed on a big, burgundy armchair in the display.

She nudges him. “Want to go in?”

He glances back at her, almost distractedly. “This is your trip,” he says pointedly.

“No, let’s go in,” she says, because he clearly wants to. She tugs on his hand until he’s joining her through the threshold of the store, and he sighs, smiling.

They’re greeted by a bespectacled man in a snug cardigan that screams _Architect’s Digest_ to Betty, and offers his help if they have any questions. The shop is fairly minimal, but a deeper space than it seemed from the window. The furniture ranges from the luxurious to the practical, but she doesn’t get much of a chance to follow the ones that catch her eye, as Jughead wanders over to the chair in the window.

She watches him balk slightly when he gets close enough to the price tag, but doesn’t run away screaming, so there is that. “Looking for a new chair?” Betty asks, over his shoulder.

“I always used to joke about getting JB an armchair for a graduation present,” he replies, grinning. “You know, armchair psychology. She hated it, and I was mostly kidding, but I don’t know. This one is pretty nice.”

“You have a great eye,” the man in the cardigan says from behind them. “That one is beautiful. The leather is milled in Argentina, and then designed and built right here in New England. A stately piece for any home.”

Betty knows that if there’s anything that puts Jughead off, it’s a hard sell, but despite the dubious look crossing his face, he just nods and flicks his eyes over the chair.

“There is something to be said about your first piece of furniture,” Betty says, and his attention turns to her. “My dad said that to me, once. That it should be something special. The mark of ownership as the first mark of adulthood. I don’t know if he was right, really, but I did buy myself a new bed when I broke up with Trev. Kind of a statement that I had done it for myself.”

Jughead is watching her, his eyes moving across her face. “Yeah?”

She shrugs. “Something to think about.”

He hums to himself, mulling this over. “I don’t know. It’s kind of an expensive gift for someone I’m still kind of mad at,” he says, but without any real heat to it. Just like before, Betty gets the sense that he’s still more interested in letting JB squirm over her guilt out of teasing at this point, but thinks he’s got the right to do that, so she doesn’t press it.

Jughead tells the store employee that he’s going to sit on it—a bit wryly, clearly a pun that the man doesn’t catch—and they’re about to leave when something catches Betty’s eye. She cuts across the store, towards a gleaming, warm-wooded desk. It’s not quite as sleek and minimal as the rest of the desks nearby, with just the right balance of curve and efficient, smooth design.

It’s homey, somehow, like she could see herself settled down for hours, hunkered in with books and papers and her favorite ceramic pencil cup and a nice pen or two, and—

“Nice,” Jughead says appreciatively beside her.

“It is,” she replies, surprised to find her own voice almost wistful.

He looks at her now, his eyebrow quirked. His lips pull back with something like a smirk. “You should get it.”

Betty releases a breath. “Yeah, and put it where? I don’t have room for this. I already have a desk.”

Jughead chuckles, shaking his head. “Cooper, you are seriously good at denial. What about your speeches of yesteryear, or two minutes ago, when you were telling me all about the importance of owning good furniture?”

“That’s different,” she sighs. “JB doesn’t own anything already.”

He rolls his eyes. “Who picked out the desk in your room, Betty? You, or your parents?”

He has a point, and it brings her all the way back to that day of the barbeque, when he’d told her that her room seemed like an idea of her, rather than who she really was. Maybe he’s right; if she wants to be herself, she wants her space to reflect that.

But one thing at a time.

It’s a lot easier to buy herself a comfy pair of jeans at a store on vacation than it is to start replacing all the furniture in her room, both emotionally and financially. It’s just not practical, not right now.

“I get what you’re saying,” she says finally, exhaling again. “But I don’t know how I’d get this to Riverdale, anyway. Shipping would cost half as much as the desk itself. So maybe another time.”

It’s a flimsy excuse given some of her plans that are at play, but Jughead holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright,” he says, shrugging. But as they turn to go, she catches his eyes dart back to the desk.

They head back out onto the street, the sky now openly darkening at the top, a warm, winking blue, and they’re just loosely discussing dinner plans warring with the fact that they had a late lunch when they hear a sound from behind them.

“Jug! Jug!” A bellowing voice calls over their shoulder, and they both turn to see a tall guy jogging up towards them, despite being dressed in a full suit. His eyes immediately turn onto Betty, down to their entwined hands, and back onto Jughead with a surprised grin. “Dude, what’s up? I never see you on Newbury. Thought this street was too prep for our resident Unabomber.”

Jughead releases a little breath, and then raises his eyebrows. “Thanks for that. Uh, Betty, this is Reggie, a…friend of mine. Reggie, this is my girlfriend, Betty.”

A laugh bubbles out of him. “What the fuck, you have a girlfriend? No wonder you’ve been full witness protection lately,” he says cheerily, punching Jughead on the arm with enough force to make him stumble back slightly. He turns to Betty, any visage of _bro_ briefly disappearing and clearly jumping into business mode. “Reggie Mantle,” he says seriously, shaking her hand.

She returns introductions, and Reggie stands back, his hands on his waist, clucking his tongue and surveying the two of them. “Alright, well I was just gonna head home, but nah. Let’s go get a drink. C’mon, my favorite bar is just a few blocks away. My treat.”

Jughead glances over at Betty, and she shrugs despite his skeptical look, as if to say she’ll defer to his judgment. After a moment of deliberation, he sighs. “I guess we don’t have anything else to do,” he says, and Reggie laughs again.

“Oh, worm your way to my heart, why don’t you,” Reggie says, clapping Jughead on the back and using that half-fond, half-exasperated tone people often use around her boyfriend.

As it turns out, the bar isn’t far at all. It’s about what she expected for a guy dressed as officially as Reggie: a glittering, beautiful crowd of a post-finance workday. Reggie takes their orders as he sheds down to just his dress shirt, cuffing the sleeves and gesturing for them to find a booth before slipping off to gather drinks.

Jughead watches him disappear through the throng of people, and when he turns back to look at her, she passes him a smile. “You know, for someone with such Proustian reclusive tendencies, you sure are friends with a lot of bros.”

“He was Archie’s college roommate,” he explains. “I don’t know, for a while I didn’t think he saw me as anything other than Archie’s occasional third arm, but lately…yeah, I guess I can’t argue with that anymore, but, hey, Kerouac was friends with bros too. Actually, never mind, I don’t want to be compared to Kerouac.”

She laughs just as Reggie returns, three drinks squeezed between his hands and plopping into the free seat across from them.

“Gin and tonic with St. Germaine for the lady,” he says, passing Betty her clinking cocktail. “And brewsky for the brosky,” he adds, handing Jughead his beer. Jughead is about to take a sip when Reggie reaches across the table with a pausing hand. “Wait, dude. Let’s cheers.”

“Cheers?” Jughead echoes dubiously, but Reggie is already raising his glass.

“Yeah,” Reggie says, shrugging, as if this were obvious and only natural. “To old friends, and the new ones they bring us.” Betty and Jughead exchange glances, and then simultaneously lift up their drinks.

The sound of glass has always been a noise that made her uncomfortable.

Clinking little noises that were somehow both loosely ambient and able to ring loudly in her ears, something about it set her on the edge of anxiety, just enough to make her smile, but because she didn’t mean it. Because glass is a tenuous alchemy, blown out from dust, beautiful, but almost born to shatter.

Inherent fragility always made her nervous.

Not that she flinched every time she saw a glass cup, not that she was _always_ afraid it would _runneth over,_ but that if she could help it, she would reach for plastic first, often not even aware of what she was doing. Something that she didn’t have to think about, and deliberately so.

She had enough breakable things in her life.

And after her father died, during her most tightly-wound, on the days where her anxiety laid thickly in her chest and kept her from seeing five feet in front of her, she would move slowly, walking very carefully past the framed photographs in her hallway.

It almost made her want to laugh, when she thought about the fact that people protect memories with glass, because—well, who would protect the glass?

But here, as their little glasses kiss and clink, in this warmly lit bar in a city she’s always wished to know well, pressed in next to the boy she loves, her eyes travel from his lips to his eyes, and realizes that was a foolish worry. 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: _kiss me_ by sixpence none the richer, _on the road to find out_ by cat stevens, and lyrics at the top are from _fade into you_ by mazzy star. sorry this took so long!! honestly it was several factors slowing me down, all hitting at once, and i do apologize. 
> 
> also, i'm sorry to have not gotten to all my review replies from the last chapter...but i figured you guys would rather have the next chapter first, since it's been such a long wait? will be getting to replies over the next couple days, so sorry! i love doing them and feel terrible when i'm behind on them. 
> 
> anyway, i rewrote this chapter so many times i can't see straight anymore---let me tell you, writing happiness is not easy!! i can't pinpoint what exactly blocked me so directly, and there's still a lot that is bugging me but i've officially reached the point where i don't see what else i could change without it taking another friggin month. 
> 
> so go easy on me today, lmao. it's been a long couple of weeks. but i hope you liked the chapter, and pretty please let me know what you thought in a review! they mean so so much to me, especially when it was a hard chapter to finish. 
> 
> up next: more reggie, archie, and the fluff i will try to sell to you. and then just the epilogue!! also, a special shoutout to my own fever dreams regarding that camaro that thus made an appearance into my fic / the snickering i've had over making jughead live in the south end (a fact i decided before i even wrote this story)
> 
> fun fact: all things mentioned in this chapter (and onwards, i love boston and know it well) are real places or things! duck tours, charlie's sandwich shoppe, etc. if you're ever there, skip the duck tour, get the sandwich. :)


	19. Chapter 19

_And lift me up in a wave of love_

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**JULY**

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“So it’s Arch’s birthday soon. August coming up fast,” Reggie says, through a mouthful of burger. Jughead lets out a weary sigh, knowing where this is going to go, but either Reggie misses it or is ignoring it. “He’s gonna be back in town, packing up the rest of his shit. He said I could throw the party. I’m thinking…” He pauses to wave a hand right to left, and probably also for dramatic effect. “Ode to a Beach Cabana.”

Jughead passes him a flat look across the table. “Okay, your theme suggestion for literally every party is something tropical. We get it, you have a beach house,” he sighs, slurping on his straw. “How about…the theme is Fyre Festival. Set up some shitty tents and let a pack of stray dogs loose. Easy.”

Reggie bursts out laughing. “Fucked up.”

“Okay, how about Post-Sandy Jersey Shore? You don’t have to do anything except let me trash your beach house,” Jughead counters, with a wry grin.

That one earns an eye of wariness. “Alright, that one is actually fucked up.”

Jughead concedes to this, immediately feeling ashamed. “True. My bad.”

“I’m just saying, you’re gonna jinx the whole Eastern Seaboard talking like that,” Reggie says, half-seriously. “The beach house is the Mantle sanctuary. It’s sacred, bro. We don’t say the H-word. Plus, like, you know. Too soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Putting hurricane jokes officially on the list of things I’ve taken too far, sorry,” Jughead sighs. “Won’t do it again.”

He feels bad about it, but still, his thoughts are lingering more on Reggie’s caginess. He’s always suspected there is a very strange anthropological phenomenon wherein all frat boys are inherently deeply superstitious, and Reggie’s reaction to jinxes more or less confirms that, and Jughead feels as though he suddenly knows him a bit better now.

Though he suspects if they’d known each other in high school it’s likely that Reggie would’ve made his life a living nightmare—backed up by Reggie’s own opinions on the matter—it’s like something odd clicked between them.

To the point where Jughead realized after the _third_ text asking him to hang out that Reggie genuinely, actually, apparently wants to be his friend.

Reggie claims it’s because _a,_ meeting Betty made Jughead seem more human, and less a “Frankenstein of Tragic Emo Tropes,” as it was so lovingly put, and _b,_ because apparently he just thinks Jughead is funny.

(Which is honestly a radical thought for him to process; the only people who have ever thought his sense of humor was entertaining rather than dickish were Archie, Betty, and JB, the latter two of which spend most of their time rolling their eyes at him rather than admitting it outright. And Archie only gets about half of his jokes anyway.)

Jughead suspects there’s a third reason, and it’s because he’s met Reggie’s other friends. Moose is friendly enough, but carrying on a conversation with him would be easier had with a bucket. The rest of them range from the frat-tastic to the probably literally criminally insanely rich, and therefore he hates them on principle. And thus, without Archie around, he thinks Reggie turned to him for a little normalcy.

But Betty likes him, and he trusts her as a character witness above all else.

For his part, Jughead thinks he likes Reggie because he’s basically a wittier version of Archie; the unfailing loyalty, the lack of judgment, the honesty, and typically competitive bro-type—but without the exasperating need to have jokes explained to him.

The downside of this is that Jughead suspects the same shit he could pull with Archie will not work on Reggie.

This theory comes to a head when Reggie finishes his burger and wipes his hands of crumbs and says, “Okay, dude, but seriously. Beach party, end of August. Last rager of the summer. You down?”

Jughead does nothing but slurp at the bottom of his drink for ten seconds before saying, “Pretty sure that according to Merriam-Webster, rager is still not officially a word. Like, fucking _facepalm_ is, but not rager. Did you know that?”

Reggie does not fall for it.

His eyes narrow sharply, studying Jughead.

Then, with his hands thrown up into the air, “Oh, _fuck all,_ are you two still not talking? Dude, this is officially fucking dumb. You know, Arch wouldn’t tell me what the fight was even about because he said it would piss you off more, and then you’re acting like some wigging 1960s draft dodger every time I bring it up. Like, what could be that bad?”

Jughead makes a noise of discontentment, drumming the knuckles of his fist against the steel picnic table as he decides whether or not he wants to finally deal with this.

“At this point, I think it’s just the fact that we haven’t talked since,” he admits begrudgingly. “I was kind of waiting for him to approach me and just pretend like nothing happened. That way we could both mutually suppress our emotions and move on as usual.”

Reggie levels him with a flat look. “Pretty sure he’s waiting for _you_ to extend the olive branch, bro.”

Slurping fruitlessly on his drink once more and rolling his eyes, Jughead nods. He’d figured that much out for himself—not that it brought him any closer towards finding pacification. The nature of his own stubbornness was only ever rivaled by that of his best friend, and he realizes now it’s amazing it hasn’t caused more arguments already.

“So, you’re really not going to tell me what you two fought about?” Reggie asks skeptically, waving his pickle in Jughead’s face in lieu of a wagging finger.

He lets out a breath. “It’s just so stupid. We fought about girls.”

Reggie, who had been chewing on a fresh bite of the pickle, slows, his eyes widening. “He made a pass at Betty?”

“What? No, no,” Jughead amends quickly, thinking once again that Reggie needs some more decent friends if that’s his first worry. “It’s…it was mostly my fault, I think. He was just telling me all about his plans with Veronica, going on and on about how he loved her after just a couple weeks, and hit a little too close to home, so I freaked.”

Reggie raises an eyebrow, but otherwise, his expression stays neutral. Though if anything, Jughead might think there’s something a bit smug about it.

Confirming his thoughts, Reggie just says, “Projection 101? You’re right, that is stupid.”

Jughead throws a cross look across the table, but can’t hold it for long. Instead, he sighs again. “I know. And I figured Archie knew, too. So I’ve just been waiting for him to talk to me again, but now it’s been too long so it’s getting _worse,_ and Betty hasn’t asked me about it directly yet but she’s hinted. I know it’s only a matter of time, since he’s dating _her_ best friend. And I can’t tell Betty _,_  obviously.”

That earns him a confused look. “Why can’t you tell Betty?”

He scoffs. “What would I tell her, exactly? ‘Actually, Betty, the reason I’m not talking to my best friend of twenty-plus years is because I told him he was an idiot for falling in love?’ Jesus, I can’t tell my girlfriend that, she’ll think I—I mean, what if she thinks I’m talking about myself?”

Reggie doesn’t look any less nonplussed. “I don’t see the issue here,” he says slowly.

He wrestles with the thought for a moment, debating whether or not it’s worth to pour his heart out over burgers and pickles. But maybe if he practices, if he gets used to saying it so freely, it won’t be so hard to admit to Betty herself.

So Jughead leans in closer, his voice unconsciously dropping an octave. “I…I just haven’t told her I love her.”

He doesn’t add that the moment he admits to Betty what the fight was about, he’ll have to follow it up with his own confession, and he’s still scared that it’s too soon.

After all, it was too soon the first time, and even though they’ve now been together for months, it doesn’t make him any less nervous.

Not that he thinks she’ll break up with him for it—but despite what he’s seen pushed across a screen, love isn’t a band-aid. Love is only a weight off his shoulders because he’s put it elsewhere; those formative years are the burden he hasn’t lost, just begun to share.

And he knows that’s how it should be, that’s how a partnership should feel, and he wants to tell her what that means to him. He does.

He knows she won’t run. He knows that.

But it’s still easier said than done.

Jughead almost expects Reggie to burst out laughing. That would be the typical response, perhaps followed by some kind of head noogie or a soft punch to the gut or some kind of machismo uttering of _man up._

But Reggie doesn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he does something Jughead himself is very familiar with: he takes a stalling bite of food.

After a moment, Reggie clears his throat and settles in over his folded arms. “Well, yeah. It’s hard, dude. I know we’re both used to Archie announcing he’s in love faster than the frickin’ moon can turn, but for the layman, it’s not something that’s easy for everyone. You know, really putting _that_ out there,” he says in an almost faraway voice, one that actually gives Jughead pause.

He squints at Reggie, almost as if perhaps newly seeing him, or realizing for the first time that he’s never actually heard Reggie talk about anyone he’s interested in. Never, now that he’s really thinking about it, seen him in a relationship lasting longer than a month.

Jughead has, of course, seen him in action in bars; seen him disappear into the night with his arm slung around an anonymous shoulder. But he never brought any of those women around to parties, or even up in conversation.

He remembers the time all those months ago at the beach that Reggie asked him to write a happy ending. Had a longer look in his eye than the joke might suggest.

He’s lately wondered why a figure of social grace like Reggie would want a lonely loner like Jughead as a friend.

And suddenly, the answer seems obvious.

Reggie shifts under Jughead’s studying look, and fusses with his hair awkwardly. “I just mean, don’t beat yourself up about that. Because… You two are hella into each other, anyone with eyes can see that, so you don’t have anything to worry about, but that doesn’t mean you just suddenly don’t. Worry, you know.”

“Yeah,” Jughead says quietly, as Reggie glances away, focusing on a crumb in the paper wrapping of his burger. “Yeah, I do know. Thanks, Reg.”

Reggie looks up, and meets his eye. Grins.

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**AUGUST**

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“Okay. Blue or white?” Betty asks, holding up two button up shirts that, thanks to the graininess of his computer and the lack of light in her room, look nearly identical.

“Is this like _The Dress?_ Uh, the answer was white and gold, right?” He asks, squinting at his Skype screen.

“Black and blue, and we’re so not going there,” she says, huffing. “ _Juggie._ Seriously, I’m losing my mind here. Which one looks more fun and professional? I want it to say that I work hard, but also that I’m down to earth.”

Slightly bewildered, because he’s fairly sure he’s never thought this hard about his own wardrobe, even as a person with a penchant for unironic suspenders, Jughead scratches at his ear. “Honestly, Betts, the camera quality here is practically Blair-Witchian and they look pretty alike from where I’m sitting. But…blue?”

Betty whines out of frustration, which he knows is her anxiety flaring up. His heart clenches. He should be there, he thinks, digging his teeth into his lip.

JB walks past his open door just as Betty groans again and disappears from the screen, presumably back to her closet. His sister doubles back, poking her head through the doorway. “Everything all good?” She asks, eyebrow raised.

“JB!” Betty cries, rushing back towards the screen. “Help, I need a third opinion. What do you think is the most _professional_ color?”

His sister crosses in the room, joining him on the bed to get a better look at the screen, where Betty is alternating between two, once again, highly similar looking shirts.

“Jesus, Jug, this computer is ancient, no wonder it’s so grainy,” she mutters, leaning forward and narrowing her eyes at it. She turns to look at him. “Do you type books on this thing or do you have to hand-chisel the words in?”

“Shut up. Help Betty or force me to be a mostly grown man who tells his little sister to get out of his room,” he sighs.

“Alright, alright,” JB chuckles, tucking her knees under her as she settles comfortably onto the bed. “What look are we going for, Betty?”

“I have an interview. Or, well, it’s a meeting. Like, supposedly it’s pretty informal before the real interview. That’s why it needs to look professional _and_ approachable. I’m thinking a button up, but one that has a print, maybe? I don’t know if you an see, but the blue one has little white flowers, and the white one has pink horses.”

“Ooh,” JB says, eyes widening and briefly glancing at Jughead. “Is this the thing with your old publishing house?”

“Yes,” comes Betty’s far away voice, as she’s wandered off screen. He hears noises like clothes hangers shifting around and is pretty sure she’s back at her closet. “The other girl who was in my internship program, Sabrina, stayed on with a job after I left. She’s a book designer, but when I reached out at the beginning of the summer she said there might be someone leaving. And now they’ve given their notice, so they’re looking to fill the position! And they’re looking at recommendations before public listings first, so Sabrina worked her magic and they remembered me, so…”

Betty trails off, biting her lip, and Jughead’s not sure who is more nervous at this point. Betty, who actually has to _have_ the interview and jump through the appropriate hoops, or himself, who has to sit on his hands and not holler about how happy he is that his girlfriend might get a job that puts her within his proximity.

He knows the answer is definitely Betty, who he fondly thinks is probably always more nervous, which is why he keeps his equal parts nerves and hopes to himself.

But, still.

He’s excited. Not just for her—mostly for her, though—but also for what it might mean. He’d been anticipating doing long distance for months, if not years. He’d even expected that it’d be him that would move, being the one who could work from anywhere.

Jughead knows nothing is guaranteed, but he’s a lot more confident Betty’s going to get the job than she is herself, though he’s fairly sure that comes down to the fact that he thinks anyone with half a brain would know she’s the ideal candidate.

“…I mean, it’s an editorial position, which is what I want, though it’s in Children’s Books. But it’d be something new for me, and the good kind of challenge, I think. And at least somewhere to start,” Betty is saying, still explaining the details to JB, pulling Jughead from his thoughts. “But I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. I don’t have the job.”

“You will,” Jughead says firmly. “They know you. Sabrina recommended you. You’ve got the experience and the skill. You’ve got all your boxes ticked.”

Betty doesn’t say anything from across the screen, and though the camera can’t quite pick it up, he thinks she’s blushing.

“Rarely do I say this, but Jug is right,” JB offers, leaning forward so that a curtain of her dark hair covers up his view of Betty. He shoos her aside. “They’ll hire you if they know what’s good for them.”

“Sounds like you’re threatening them,” Betty says, sighing fondly.

“Well, I will, if that’s what needs to be done,” JB replies, her nose in the air. “I could, too. Dad knows _bikers.”_

“What, the guy from his local Union group who openly calls himself _Tall Boy?”_ Jughead scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, terror really strikes the heart.”

Betty pauses as JB throws him a look. “How is your dad?” Betty asks, sounding somewhat hesitant to even be asking.

JB and Jughead exchange glances, as if seeing who wants to answer. JB gestures him forward with a wave of her hand. “Good,” he says. “Actually really good. He has a job doing carpentry right now for this construction company outside the city. I think he’s happy to be working with his hands again.”

“Did he like the manuscript?” At Betty’s behest, he’d given into his father’s wishes to read the latest copy of the sequel.

“Think so, yeah,” Jughead says, scratching behind his ear. “He had a couple of suggestions, though nothing compared to your usual dozen.”

“Ha, ha,” Betty replies, grinning. “Well, that’s good.”

“Okay, well I should to get back to _my_ job hunt, but Betty, I think you should wear blue. There’s a lot of psychology around the color as a calming, stable presence,” JB says, pushing herself off the bed. “When are you coming to town next?”

“Soon. The meeting is next week, so I’m coming in on the weekend train,” Betty says, fidgeting but smiling.

“Groovy,” JB says approvingly. “Can’t wait to see you. I miss you around here! There’s a new vegan restaurant in Allston I want to check out, and unlike _some_ people I know _you_ have an open mind, so we can go there when you get in!”

They make their goodbyes and then JB is flouncing out of his room and across the hall to her own, the door shutting quietly behind her. A few moments later, and the drifting, echoing sounds of what suspiciously sounds like _Heaven is a Place on Earth_ filter through the apartment.

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to go to any dumb vegan restaurant with her.”

“I don’t mind,” Betty says. “She’s right. I do have an open mind, unlike a person who shall remain nameless.”

“Hey, my mind is open. My gullet is not.”

“Please,” she laughs. “Like we both don’t know you’re only picky to piss off your sister.”

“It’s the little things.” He shrugs, then pauses, gathering his thoughts. “I miss you too, though.”

Betty lies down on the bed, and the screen moves a little as she adjusts the computer to line up with her new angle. She props herself up on one elbow. “I miss you too, Juggie.”

He loves that nickname on her lips. “So how’s the garage sale going? Sell any good, creepy porcelain figurines yet?”

“I’m going to have to pry that joke out of your cold, dead hands, aren’t I?”

“Absolutely,” he says, lying down himself, and imagining they’re both there on his bed, having pillow talk.

“The sale is officially going,” Betty says, sighing. “We settled on a price, one I think is a little more than fair to us, and Adam’s coming down tomorrow to start taking inventory. He’s already hired someone and got a few of his guys to cover until he finds more people, so I don’t have to fully close up when I’m in Boston next week.”

He watches her fiddle with her fingers, and he knows she’s resisting the urge to curl them into fists. “Um,” she adds, her voice smaller. “So you really think blue is the right color?”

“I know that someone saying _don’t be nervous_ is completely useless advice, but honestly Betty, you don’t have to be so nervous. It’s going to go great. They’re going to love you,” he says earnestly. Anyone who meets her will love her. He certainly did, fairly immediately. “Hey, why don’t you ask Veronica to help you pick out an outfit? She’s going to be monumentally more effective than me. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’d have a hernia if she found out you were trying to go to _me_ for fashion advice.”

“Probably.” Betty grins, and then exhales. “I just didn’t want to bug her. She’s rarely stressed, but she’s in full swing of packing right now, and worried about her deadline to get all of her boxes out the door. I can’t believe it’s really happening. Her moving…it always felt kind of abstract. Now it’s just…real.”

He doesn’t really know what to say to that. Partially because he’s in the same boat—dimly, he knows that Archie is soon going to be back in town to do just that, and he’s not quite come to terms with it, especially since he’s no closer to having reached out to Archie.

Betty seems to be thinking something along the same lines. “Did…you guys…have you…”

“No,” he interrupts. “Not yet.”

She waits for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. “Veronica said Reggie wants to throw a birthday party for him. They’ll both be there. It’s when I’ll be in town, too, so…they invited me. You too, obviously.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face. “I mean, Reggie invited me a while ago. I don’t know though, Betts. I don’t think he’s going to want me there.”

“Of course he wants you there,” Betty says, almost sadly. “You’re his best friend. And you’re about to be living three thousand miles apart.” There’s a short intermission as Betty looks for her words. “Veronica either won’t tell me what the fight is about or doesn’t even really know herself, but, Juggie, maybe I could _help_ if I—”

His eyes briefly squeeze shut. He’s not ready for this conversation yet. “No, Betts, really. I appreciate it, honest. But it’s just something he and I have to work out ourselves.”

Jughead looks at her just as she nibbles on her bottom lip. “Okay.”

“I did get him a present, though,” he sighs, almost unable to take the look on her face. “A while ago. So it’d be stupid to let it go to waste.”

She glances up, meeting his eye. “Sure would be.”

“Well, I’ll think about it. But I want to hear more about you. How was your day?”

Betty blows out a breath, clearly aware of his attempts at diversion, but seemingly debating whether it’s worth to push. Eventually, she must decide not to, because she lets him change the subject, and launches into a story about her sister’s new nanny and her susceptibility to the twin’s pranks.

He settles in, stupidly happy just happy to watch her talk.

.

.

.

It turns out that Jughead _does_ think it’d be a waste of a perfectly good birthday present.

After all, it wasn’t going to do any good sitting on his shelf, and after a bit of tactless prodding, Betty has convinced him to attend the beach party. He’s grumbling about it even as he digs around his room for his swim trunks, but then she pulls out the white one-piece of his most elusive daydreams, and he immediately shuts up.

So they load up the truck with their overnight bags and presents for Archie and make the drive down to the Cape. They’re leaving late enough that they only get stuck in a small amount of weekend traffic, and by the time they arrive at the Mantle beach house, there’s the welcoming warmth of tiki lights illuminating the path from the house to the party, where a large bonfire sits waiting.

As soon as they drop their bags in the house and make their way down to the source of music and fire, Betty is immediately attacked by what he, instinctually, assumes is squealing poltergeist in pearls. He recognizes the figure materializing out of the darkness as Veronica a moment later, as she throws her arms around Betty and groans about how happy she is to see her.

His lips press together in amusement. “Didn’t you guys see each other like, a week ago?”

“Yes, but our time together is precious now,” she sighs, pouting at Betty before turning her sharp eyes onto him. Veronica surveys him for a long moment. “You came after all. Are we going to have any drama tonight?”

Jughead lifts up Archie’s present in his hands in defense, pretending he doesn’t feel Betty’s attention on him once more. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Normally that wouldn’t answer my question, but I think I now know you well enough to accept you wouldn’t willingly walk into any den gunning for a fight,” Veronica says finally, a manicured brow perfectly perched. “Now, _Vonnegut,_ if you don’t mind, it’s my turn to monopolize Betty,” she adds, reaching for his girlfriend’s hand and pulling her off towards the bonfire.

In the faint darkness, he can make out Betty mouthing _sorry_ over her shoulder, but he shakes his head. Veronica is right; the two of them do have limited time before her big move, and they should spend as much time together as they can.

So he waves them off, trailing behind to give them their space, and curves around the fire while they find a seat in the sand together. He meets Reggie by a table of food, who greets him with a nod of the head.

“Yo,” Reggie says, plucking Archie’s present out of Jughead’s hands and depositing it onto another table of other brightly wrapped goods. He balks slightly at the weight, glaring at it. “Dude, what’s in this thing? Did you get him a fucking brick?”

“It’s a vintage metronome,” Jughead sighs. “Perfect to go in a suitcase, I know. But…they keep time for musicians, measure it in beats—too thick a metaphor for a sap like me to pass up.”

Reggie snorts. “He’s around here somewhere, by the way. I think he and Moose were trying to get a couple of people to play capture the flag.”

Jughead raises an eyebrow. “It’s practically pitch black out.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t say they were successful,” Reggie returns, smirking. His expression then turns slightly more serious, nudging Jughead in the side. “Hey. So, you two talk yet?”

“Me and Archie, or me and Betty?” Jughead asks, rolling his eyes. “Neither, not really. But crossing at least one off tonight, hopefully.”

Reggie opens his mouth to say something, but as he’s about to, Moose sneaks up behind him and uses the leverage of Reggie’s shoulders to do a buoyant little jump. He then spots Jughead, gives him a welcoming punch on the arm, and then darts off, as if immediately distracted. _The attention span of a puppy,_ Jughead thinks.

However, that also means that Archie has probably rejoined the party too, and sure enough, he spots him by the keg, pouring himself a drink.

“Alright. Let’s get this over with,” he grumbles to Reggie, who passes him an approving thumbs-up, which he doesn’t stick around long to look at before marching off towards Archie at the keg. “Hey, can we talk?” Jughead asks quietly.

Archie looks over and lowers his cup from his mouth, eyebrows knotted. “Yeah,” he says, almost in surprise. He catches Veronica’s eye from across the bonfire, and Jughead follows the line of sight on to Betty, who is watching them carefully.

He joins Jughead at the fringe of the group and allows him to lead them towards the beach. They’re both silent until they reach the perimeter of the waves, Jughead dropping onto the sand and letting his feet stretch into the gentle lapping of water just beyond. Archie mimics him, his knees spread and tucked up under his arms.

Jughead doesn’t say anything for a long moment, his eyes on the moon, rising high above the water, but leaving a curtain of light rippling along the horizon. “I’m sorry,” he says finally.

“Jug—” Archie starts, and Jughead already knows what he’s going to say. Archie would never have done this unprompted, but now that Jughead offered the first peace, he’s about to fall on his sword and take credit for the fight.

“No, Arch, it was my fault. It was my own stupid bullshit,” he says, rubbing at his face. “Everything you said about how you felt about Veronica—that was how I felt about Betty. And I wasn’t ready to realize that, so I unloaded on you. It was wrong.”

There’s a spell of silence, and when Jughead looks over, Archie is watching him. “I know,” he says finally. “And I knew that then, too. And I still said all that mean stuff to you. I’m sorry too.”

The words roll out between them in the beat of a wave returning to shore, and then Jughead nods, feeling relieved. He knew once they broke the silence, the rest of it would mend immediately; that was also, probably, why it took so long to get over with.

He turns his eyes back to the ocean and has a strange, childish desire to run headfirst at it.

Jughead glances over his shoulder, the bonfire now too far away to make out Betty’s form amongst the embers—knowing she’s there all the same, and his heart feeling as warmed as if it were sitting there by the flames.

And then he realizes it. Pushing the apologies off his chest to Archie only makes him realize he’s been clinging to the one he has to give to Betty, too.

“How do you do it?” He asks, after another long pause, almost unaware of the words until they’re out there, laid on the sand between them.

Archie looks over. “Do what?”

“Any of this. As long as I’ve known you, Arch, you’ve always been so good at this stuff; relationships… _talking_ about relationships,” he says, swallowing. He tries to pass off an awkward laugh. “You make it look so easy.”

Archie picks at something small in the sand, as if debating his words.

“My mom left me too, you know,” he says, in the absolute last thing Jughead expected. “I mean, I know it was different than yours. Mine just moved, and I still see her a couple times a year. We talk. But…she still left us. And it made me feel, I don’t know, really…empty sometimes.”

Jughead blinks, unprepared for this kind of confession.

Archie shrugs, almost bashfully. “I mean, I’m not trying to get all Oed…edi…”

“Oedipal,” Jughead supplies, with a slight smirk.

“Yeah, that.” Archie grins. “My dad and I talked about it once. He said people leave holes, and if you don’t try to patch it yourself, they swallow you up. Turn into other stuff; make holes in other places. Or something like that.”

“I get that,” he replies, after a beat.

Archie seems about to say something else, and then pauses to exhale, looking up at the sky. “I don’t like being alone, Jug. I hate it, actually. Like, I’ve always been jealous of how you’re so fine hanging out by yourself. So yeah, I’m good at this _stuff._ But because I was, like, chasing that empty.”

Scratching at his nose, Archie takes another rallying breath. “But it was only ever easy because…I don’t know, I always kind of knew it wasn’t real most of the time. They were just words, something to make _me_ feel better. Or not so alone, you know? And I can’t really explain it, but it feels different, with Veronica. Like maybe because this time, love feels like…actions? Does that make sense?”

Jughead stares at his best friend, almost unsure what to say. If he’d thought hard enough about it, he probably knew, deep down, that Archie was just as scared of his emotions as anyone else. His obsession with falling in love should’ve been a red flag, but all Jughead had ever done was judge it.

But since Betty, and for lack of lesser cheesiness, it feels like his eyes have been opened. Love is an action, not a word.

Finally, Jughead finds his voice. “Yeah, dude. That makes sense.”

Archie nods, flicking his eyes onto the waves. For a long stretch, they both just sit there, like they used to as boys.

The ocean curls and crashes into shore, and starts all over again.

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.

They rejoin the party, sitting on either side of their respective girlfriends, who appear deep in a mysterious discussion that is clearly intended to remain secretive, as they both immediately fall silent.

Veronica throws a none-too-subtle look over at them, and then pushes herself to her feet, shooing Archie up on his as well. “Come along, Archiekins, I want a drink,” she beckons, before leading him off into the throng of people lit by tiki torches.

Betty curls herself into his side immediately, one of her hands finding purchase on the collar of his shirt. “Did you two have a good talk?”

“Ask me what you actually want to ask,” he says, grinning.

Betty matches the smile. “Okay. Did you guys make up?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he says teasingly.

“Does that mean you’re ready to tell me what the fight was about?” She asks, trying a little to hard to keep her tone casual.

Jughead lets out a breath, and gets to his feet. “Yeah. Come on, let’s go for a walk. I’ll tell you.”

He extends his hand, and something serious passes over her face, making him wonder if she _knows._

If she knows this is going to be it—the moment he lays his heart on the line. He almost wants to duck and run again, now that he knows it’s upon him, but there’s firelight reflected in her eyes, and wants these words to be the action.

She takes his hand.

They walk silently for a few minutes, two warm glows on either end of their paths. Behind them is the soft warmth of the bonfire, and beyond them lies the beckoning gleam of the beach house, suddenly seeming like the lighthouse in the storm.

He finds himself leading them up to the house, and they take a seat on the rattan couch on the back deck, a low fire from much earlier still dim in the nearby fire pit. The air is both cool from a sea breeze and heated by the earlier summer sun, and it’s all a bit of a cliché spot for romance in his mind; almost so cliché that he wants to use it as an excuse to save it for another time.

But more than he wants this off his chest, he wants her to know it.

So he swallows, and begins. “The fight was really stupid,” he starts. “Probably a third of it was about childhood drama that we never worked through, but most of it…well, for me, it was about you.”

Betty blinks, looking stunned. “You fought about me?”

He shakes his head, hoping he hasn’t already mucked this up. “No. When Archie told me that he wanted to move to LA, he had a few reasons, but the main one I glommed onto was the fact that he was apparently in love. And I told him that was impossible, and that he was being an idiot.”

“Oh,” Betty says, clearly attempting to keep her face from falling—and confirming Jughead’s fear that she might logically leap to his own feelings. She looks down and concentrates on folding her hands in her lap. “Oh.”

Jughead scoots closer, one of his hands finding it’s way onto its favorite spot on her neck. He loves the way it arches up beneath his fingers, swan-like as his thumb rubs against the soft skin there. Her eyes remain low.

“I was wrong,” he says softly. His voice catches, and he pushes through it. “And I think I knew I was wrong, even then. I already loved you.”

She glances up, eyes wide and somehow so green against the moonlight.

“I love you, Betty Cooper,” he whispers, as soft and as firm as blowing a dandelion wish into the wind.

Betty is silent for a moment, and then a laugh bubbles out of her, something so pure and magical he thinks he’ll never hear a finer tuned sound. There’s something warmer in her eyes than firelight.

“You love me?” She asks, tentative if only to confirm.

“I think…I think maybe since the river,” he admits, his heart hammering despite trying to retain any semblance of _cool_. “If you wanted a time stamp.”

The softest smile curls across her lips, unfolding like night blooms, but she doesn’t say anything, just runs her eyes all across his face. He watches the green bounce back and forth around his features. He doesn’t even really mean to say her name, questioning on his tongue, prompting her forward, but he hears it belatedly. “Betty?”

She shakes her head slightly. “I love you too, Jughead Jones,” she replies, her hands cupping his face. His free hand rises to cover her own against his jaw, and he exhales, lips bit back against a beaming smile, feeling nothing but relief crash over him.

He’d wanted to expect it echoed back at him, but had never quite gotten to that part of the road. Deliberately, he’d focused on the build up to his own confession, tortured himself so much over it that he’d pushed out any expectations about hearing it back.

And now, he’s glad he has—because nothing could ever compare. He laughs too, in that similar, delirious kind of way, and presses his forehead against hers briefly before shifting his face so that he can catch her in a kiss.

His hands fall away to her hips and he draws her closer on the couch, which squeaks slightly as she complies, pressing herself against him.

“I love you,” he says, and kisses her mouth.

“I love you,” he says, and kisses her jaw.

“I love you,” he says, and kisses at her collarbone.

“Juggie,” she whines, and he _especially_ loves the breathy pitch in her tone. “Can we…can we go inside?”

Still functioning on semi-delirium of happiness, he practically hops to his feet, scooping up Betty bridal style and uses his foot to nudge the sliding glass door of the beach house open.

She laughs gleefully as he struggles with it, and reaches her hand over to the handle to draw it fully out. He shoulders them both through, but not before accidentally whacking her dangling foot against the door.

“Shit, sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, but she only laughs harder.

“And they say romance is dead,” she giggles, kicking the offended foot in the air.

“Baby, I can be your necromancer,” he replies goofily, earning him a scoff. She squirms slightly in his arms as he looks for a place to deposit themselves. He’ll never admit it, and Betty doesn’t weigh much, but this looked a lot easier when he had half-expected there to be a throne of beds waiting for them just beyond the threshold.

Which, now that he’s thinking on it, sounds ridiculous, but it’s Reggie’s house, after all. He grunts slightly, bouncing her in his arms, but finds a bedroom quickly beyond a hallway.

Kicking the door shut behind them, he drops her softly onto the bed—he was going for a gentle lay down, but his arms had started to shake with the weight—and quickly joins her, one knee perched on the mattress as his other leg remains on the floor to balance himself above her.

“Is this weird?” Betty asks, after they’ve broken from another kiss. One of her hands is flat against his stomach. “I mean, doing this in Reggie’s house, at Archie’s birthday party? What if someone comes in? What if they come looking for us?”

He sways above her, considering this. “Maybe. Do you want to stop?”

“No,” she admits. She bites her lip, her hair loose in her ponytail.

“Then what do you want?” He asks, resuming his earlier task of worshipping a spot into the corner of her neck.

“I want you to show me you love me,” she murmurs against his ear, breath thick and steamed like smoke along his skin. His hair practically stands on end and he curses softly, lowering himself onto his elbows so that he can kiss her fully once more.

What he’d really like to do is peel her clothing off one by one, but she is right about one thing—their location might not stay private forever, and their absence will surely be noticed by their two respective best friends if they’re gone too long.

So he nods, and makes quick work of her shorts, pulling her underwear down along with it.

“I love you,” he says, and kisses at her thigh.

.

.

.

After she’s come on his tongue and he’s stripped down to his boxers, she rolls them over and throws her leg across his torso, straddling him. “I want to try on top again,” she murmurs, almost a bit bashfully. The last time they’d tried this, she hadn’t really gotten the hang of it, and they’d switched back to a side-by-side position.

She’d tried to apologize, clearly flustered and embarrassed, but he’d hushed her and reminded her of the times he hadn’t made her come and that they had time to _practice_. The wiggle of his eyebrows, though, had sold it, and she’d burst into giggles and looked relieved.

Now, he nods fervently, scooting back on the bed so that he’s partially propped up against the pillows. She scoots around to give him the space to shuck his boxers and roll on the condom he’d earlier procured from his wallet, and then, after a few tentative attempts, lowers herself upon him, giving them a moment to adjust.

She gasps a little as he shifts up, pistoning his hips so that he can meet her movements halfway. One hand finds her breast, and she throws her head back.

“I love you,” he says, and feels his heart come full circle.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: um, don't look at me, but lyrics at the top are from _heaven is a place on earth_ by belinda carlisle. particularly recommend the from another room version of the song [here](http://fromanotherroom-revived.tumblr.com/post/164033783023/fromanotherroom-heaven-is-a-place-on-earth). also, the kate bush cover of _sexual healing_[here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7aL3PjNTqwU) which only seems to exist on youtube and is the love of my life. 
> 
> anyway. this chapter was a lot of feelings a long time coming, hopefully nothing was too sappy. but i think we also earned a bit of sappiness? there's also def a maple syrup sap/riverdale joke here, but i'm too lazy to make it. 
> 
> i can't believe this story is coming to a close. it's been such a monumental experience for me, and one of which i will absolutely wax to the character limit with the epilogue, but for now i'm riding a full high of _bittersweet._
> 
> i continue to be absolutely behind on review replies, please know that's just because i really love doing them and therefore they take a while (sometimes i'm barfing 3k words back at you, yanno), and i unfortunately don't have another hour or two to do them all right now. but hopefully soon i'll be caught up!!!
> 
> bit pretty pretty please drop me a comment anyway and let me know what you thought of these soft boys doing their things. the reviews mean the absolute world to me.
> 
> just the epilogue left, in which i can promise a wedding (maybe not who you think though?) (or is it????) (hmmm), and hopefully lots of my own tears.


	20. Chapter 20

_Can the child within my heart rise above?_

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**TWO YEARS LATER**

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**OCTOBER**

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Jughead is waiting for her when she gets home, looking cozy with a book and their dog on the couch. His laptop is open on the desk he bought her when she moved in with him, the one she’d spotted months earlier, but he appears to have stopped writing for the day, instead opting to read until she gets home.

Burger begins wiggling as soon as she closes the front door, bounding off the furniture and snorting in his typically loud greeting. Jughead glances up and over as she drops to her knees, rubbing her hands behind the dog’s ears, his book dropping limply into his lap.

His smile is soft and lazy upon the two of them, and perhaps even a little bit smug, as if reminiscing on the origin of said dog. And knowing him, Betty decides that’s probably exactly what he’s doing, given his habit of rubbing her love for their dog in her face.

Burger the dog had once been a joke laid upon pillow talk, and particularly one that she’d never expected to come to fruition, mainly because she’d meant what she’d said the first time—she was never going to name an animal after something she could find on the menu at Pop’s.

And as it turned out, she didn’t have to.

They’d been on their way back from visiting Jughead’s father at his apartment in Framingham, a smaller town just beyond Boston proper, when she’d remembered they were petsitting her coworker Sabrina’s cat the next week and they hadn’t picked up extra pet food yet.

(And if she’d jumped to the offer not only because she missed having pets around, but also to test the theory of how she and Jughead would fare sharing one, she still won’t admit it.)

So per request, Jughead had pulled off the Mass Pike and towards a random pet store that she’d found on her phone, only to find a pet adoption event camped out in front of the space, filled with dozens of barking dogs and cages of cats, animals and families alike enjoying the rising warmth of spring.

“We should go to another one,” Betty had said, nibbling on her lip, for she knew herself far too well.

And apparently, so did Jughead.

“Afraid you’ll want to adopt them all?” He had asked, killing the engine anyway and rolling his eyes at her. “Come on, I know you have more willpower than that. Be brave.”

“We’re just getting cat food,” she’d said, more to herself, and opened up the truck passenger door.

As it had turned out, her boyfriend had been right about her willpower, as she set all her focus on walking past the adoption event, into the pet store, finding the cat food Salem liked—Sabrina still often grumbles how picky he is—and paying without difficulty.

Jughead had wandered off at some point when Betty was asking a sales associate for help, and after she’d paid and searched the store twice over, he was nowhere to be found. By the time she spotted him again, he was back outside, crouched in front of a metal pen outside, his fingers being aggressively licked by a snub-faced bulldog mix.

“Oh no,” Betty had said, and Jughead had looked up, a guilty kind of smile on his face. “I know that look. Juggie. We _just_ moved.” The look on his face had only grown broader at that. “We’re still living halfway out of boxes. _And_ we’re about to cat-sit.”

He had risen back up, and she’d had a flashback of Kevin once saying something about _Jughead’s puppy eyes._ The snuffly dog that had been acquainting himself with Jughead’s hand had whined at once he was out of immediate proximity.

“Yeah, we just moved a bigger place with an actual yard,” he’d said, quite matter-of-factly. “Good for dogs.”

Betty had thrown up her hands. “We moved to Allston so I could have a garage to work on the cars. Anyway, what happened to being brave, having willpower?”

His lips twitched as he puffed himself up slightly. “Because I work from home, I’m actually their ideal candidate for pet adoption, according to the lady who introduced me to this fine dog.” She’d sighed, and he had broken into a softer, and somehow more triumphant smile, and she’d known he was about to play his last card. “Betts. His name is _already_ Burger. _Burger,_ remember? If that’s not fate, what is?”

“You know I don’t believe in fate,” she had said witheringly, blushing slightly at the memory, but the snub-faced dog did look quite like a Burger on top of already being named that.

And, upon serious consideration, she knew that Jughead did sometimes get bored working just by himself, and without her intervention, sometimes didn’t leave the house for days. A dog might not actually be so wild an idea.

So she had dropped down to her knees, and Burger the dog merrily came bouncing up to the cage, and just like that, she’d heard the gavel come down in her thoughts, knowing the choice was made.

She’d looked up at her boyfriend, who was grinning so broadly at her, it was impossible not to match. Betty had shaken her head, and reached through the bars to rub Burger’s ears. “I love you, but has anyone ever told you you’re a sucker, Juggie?”

He’d shoved his hands in his pockets, chuckling and shaking his head, clearly more to himself.

But his eyes were warm upon her. “Believe it or not, yes.”

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.

And now, as she crouches down, rubbing their dog behind the ears, she has a feeling he’s revisiting that very recollection.

“Cutting it kind of close, Betts,” he says after a moment, raising an eyebrow and matching it with a smirk. He throws his neck towards the direction of the wall clock.

She stops petting Burger, who immediately whines in protest, shoving his nose at Betty’s arm, and she offers him one last affectionate rub before getting to her feet. “I know, I know, but the acquisitions meeting ran late. And I really wanted to _finally_ talk to Tomoko before we leave for Vermont and then the _T_ —”

He appears in front of her, hands stretched out on her shoulders. “Betts, I’m just giving you a hard time. Relax, we’ve still got twenty minutes.”

If he thought that should somehow comfort her, he must be more sleep-deprived than he lets on. Betty whines about as loudly as Burger as she nervously squeaks _twenty minutes_ and dashes out of the living room, leaving Jughead staring after.

He appears in the doorway to their bedroom a moment later, leaning against it, watching as she rifles through one of her drawers. “Meeting go well, I take it?”

She nods, her ponytail bouncing as Burger follows in after them, immediately hopping up on the bed. “Yeah. The marketing team just had a million things to say and we had to go over the samples the illustrator sent in, so it was just a rush to grab Tomoko before she left and talk to her about the position in YA opening up.”

“What’d she say?” He asks, eyes enraptured as they watch her pull off her sweater, which lands over the form of the dog, sniffling around underneath it.

“She said I’d be a great fit for it, but we’ll have to have a more formal interview about it when we get back, which is about as good as I could’ve hoped for it to go,” Betty says in a breath, unable to completely squash the nerves in her stomach—she’s gotten much better about asking for what she wants over these past few years, but there’s always a remnant of imposter syndrome, and her stomach clenches.

“Hey,” he says softly, waiting for her to exhale and meet his eye. “You’re a dead lock for it,” he says, in that confident voice she’s heard more and more lately. He uses it so freely for her; she just wishes he would more easily use it to quell his own fears.

“That’s always what you say,” she mumbles, picking up a cotton lavender sweater and then putting it back in the drawer, deciding it’s too casual for a family dinner. She pulls on a softer pink turtleneck, stares at herself in the mirror, and then rips it off, returning to the drawer.

“Yeah, and I’ve always been right about these things,” he says, sauntering into the room and rubbing her shoulder soothingly with his fingers. “Now seriously, we might actually be late if we don’t leave soon. You really don’t even need to change.”

She looks down at herself in just her pair of jeans and pink bra. “Sure, because I look great,” she says dubiously, closing the drawer and running to the closet, where her finer clothes live.

“You do,” he agrees earnestly, trailing after her with something of a wiggling eyebrow—one which darts back down as he notices her comparing two similar clothing options and musing thoughtfully over them.

“This is an important dinner for your sister. Dressing nicely will show our support for her,” she says to the exasperated face of her boyfriend. She holds up a baby blue wrap dress, pressing it against her body, but Jughead just shakes his head.

“Betty, we’re not the Coopers. My dad is a person who once thought that formal wear was a question best answered by _bolo ties,_ okay? And my sister deliberately doesn’t own anything without holes in it,” he reminds her, blowing out a breath. “You have an upcoming weekend of fancy outfits, remember? Enjoy your jeans while you can.”

She huffs, so he drops the grin and adds, “Seriously, if you get all dressed up, you’re just going to make my dad feel awkward, because I’ll bet you ten bucks he’s wearing something flannel.”

“Fine,” she sighs, walking back to the drawer and selecting the lavender sweater. It’s mid October in New England now, and with it comes the rustling breeze of autumn she loves, if only for further excuses to warm herself in her favorite knits and curl herself against her boyfriend.

She looks up at said person, who is once again making no attempt to hide his roving eyes up along her form as she tugs the sweater over her bare skin and bra. “Where are we eating again?” She asks, checking herself in the mirror before following him out of the room.

“That Afghani place in Cambridge that JB likes,” he says, checking his watch. “And we definitely gotta go now. Let’s take the Camaro, it’s fastest.”

“You just like driving it,” she giggles, locking the back door to their house behind them and shouldering into her puffy cream-colored coat.

“Maybe,” he drawls, but he returns the grin. “And that JB gets jealous whenever she sees it. I’m hoping it’ll sway her away from the motorcycle thing,” he adds, shooting a glare at the corner of the garage, where the bike Betty’s building currently sits.

“Keep dreaming. She’s very excited about it, you know,” Betty says, and they both slip inside the car, relatively warm as it’s been in the garage.

“Believe me, I do know,” Jughead sighs and then pulls out and onto the street. Meanwhile, Betty taps out a text to JB, saying they might be a few minutes late.

That proves to be true; after they’ve parked and walked into the warmly lit restaurant, they’re roughly fifteen minutes behind punctuality, a fact which Jughead reminds her is normal for his family, but when they find their table, FP, JB, and Sabrina are all already there, nibbling on appetizers.

“Flannel,” Jughead whispers in Betty’s ear, once his father comes into sight, as he is indeed wearing the predicted fabric.

“Shut up,” she whispers back quickly, and then breaks into a smile once they’re within earshot. They slide into the two chairs left open for them; JB flashes them both a look that might be described as relieved, and Betty is seized by a stab of guilt, knowing that she and Jughead are supposed to be the buffer that keeps the mood of the  _meet-my-girlfriend_ dinner light.

“So sorry we’re late,” Betty says, shooting JB a deeply apologetic smile. “It’s my fault, there were a couple of last minute things I had to do before leaving work.”

“Long time no see,” Sabrina jokes, and Betty notices that _she_ has changed since leaving the office, now wearing a nice black turtleneck with large, golden hoop earrings, which stand out against her platinum hair, cropped around her ears.

Then again, Betty’s not the one meeting her significant other’s parent for the first time—not like she hadn’t been woefully unprepared for that moment. Then again- _again,_ and a bit ironically, JB had been the reason for that.

Sabrina lowers her voice conspiratorially, leaning in to say, “You finally cornered Tomoko then? About the position in YA?”

“ _Cornered_ is a strong word,” Betty mumbles around a small grin, unfolding her napkin in her lap. Sabrina had rivaled Jughead as a cheerleader the past few weeks, and she’s appreciative of the effort. “But yes. I’ll catch you up later.”

Meanwhile, FP offers them both a tight-lipped smile in _hello,_ the one Betty has come to recognize as _nervous_ in Jughead and surely represents the same for his father; across the table, JB wears a similar expression, and for a long, painful moment, no one seems to know what to say.

Jughead had assured Betty that JB’s sexuality was no secret, that she’d come out when she was seventeen, and that he’d even met her first girlfriend—but FP hadn’t, having been in jail at that point—and while he _knew_ and had essentially had no reaction to it _theoretically,_ Betty knows that JB has been slightly unsure how her technically-Irish-Catholic father might behave in actuality.

“So…” Betty starts, out of habit, feeling uncomfortable now that the silence has extended a tick too long—but without anywhere else to take the conversation, she fumbles around for the rest of her thought, nibbling on her lip.

There’s a sound like a kicking from somewhere under the table, and Jughead jumps slightly. His sister throws him a meaningful look, and then he clears his throat. “ _So,_ uh, we’re inserting ourselves into the conversation. Where were you?”

FP’s expression shifts then, an amused noise in the back of his throat. “JB was just telling me how she met Sabrina. Through you, right, Betty?”

“Yes! We work together. Sabrina helped me get the job, actually,” Betty says, throwing her a smile, and happy to have something safe to discuss.

“I barely did anything,” Sabrina replies with a snort. “Everyone remembered Betty. We were interns there together,” she adds for FP’s clarification, as if perhaps unsure what information he already has. “Anyway, Betty invited me to her house-warming party when they moved to Allston, and JB was there, we were the only two people not having burgers at a barbecue, and then…things just kinda went from there,” Sabrina says, her earrings catching the light as she turns to smile at JB.

JB shoots her girlfriend a pleased grin in return, and then turns a sparkling look onto Betty and Jughead. “Pretty anticlimactic when we’re sitting across from Mr. and Mrs. Whirlwind Romance over here, though. Tell me again, how many days before you declared your love, Forsythe?”

The tips of Jughead’s ears burn red, perhaps at the sound of his real name, or more possibly, the mention of Betty as a _Mrs. Anything,_ but he still manages to roll his eyes in the way only a brother can.

He shoves his face in his menu, and says loudly, “I think I want lamb for dinner.”

It has the desired effect of wrinkling JB’s nose in distaste, which doesn’t go unmissed by their father. “Are you a vegan too, Sabrina?” He asks, his lips pressed together in poorly concealed amusement.

“Just a vegetarian,” she replies, and JB pats her hand gently, mumbling something suspiciously like _for now._

They all settle into choosing their dinner options, the quiet draping over them comfortable this time, and although she’s shared many meals with the Jones since that ill-fated first one in Chicago, she can’t help but compare them a bit, and how much things have changed since then.

For one, her relationship isn’t being plagued by looming separation, she has a job she actually likes and might move to one she likes even more, she’s out of Riverdale…

Sometimes it makes her feel so full it almost hurts, realizing how love not just how it woke her up to her own purpose and desires, but how it’s all changed Jughead, a person she’s only known mostly in love, but even then saw the way he carried his fears and tears around the weight of his eyes.

Jughead, the wordsmith who can tell her he loves her so wordlessly.

Like before, at that fateful dinner two years ago, she reaches out and holds his hand under the table; only this time, rather than the tense grip he’d then anchored back down, now he returns the gesture with a gentle stroking of his thumb over the backside of her hand, laughing at something his father says about his sister.

Betty’s eyes cast around the table—first upon JB, who drinks her water with a straw and is practically glowing with relief and happiness. Then to Sabrina, who tucks the back of her hands under her chin in a way that reminds her of Veronica; who has been an unexpectedly wonderful friend in her own right, and new ally as a fellow outsider amongst the Jones.

And finally, she looks at FP at the head of the table, twisting a silver ring on his middle finger as he listens to his daughter relay a story of how their first date turned into a night at Kinko’s, making lost cat posters for a creature that had been inside the house the whole time.

For a man so self-described as prone to mistakes, he is remarkably observant, a listener with his eyes. His attention is full upon JB now, and he’s all the softer for it.

She knows she has come to know FP at a time which Jughead was allowing himself to once more; a reintroduction that has relaxed him greatly, and brought him quite a bit of peace, as JB likes to put it—though Betty wonders if he’s always going to be holding his breath in some way or another.

Her eyes then finally fall onto Jughead himself, and with tonight feeling so alike and so different from the first, she can’t help but remember all the ways he’s helped her follow her heart. Feeling her looking at him, he turns and offers her a soft, thankful kind of smile, the dimples in his cheeks long carved there.

His eyes crease at the corners. She wonders if he’s retracing some of the same memories.

.

.

.

After the bill has been paid and everyone’s gathered back into their coats—Betty thinks Sabrina and JB look appropriately adorable in their matching leather jackets, whereas FP’s outerwear seems to be an assemblage of several more layers of flannel—they step back outside into the crisp, autumn evening.

“Thanks again for dinner, Mr. Jones,” Betty says, wrapping her scarf up around her neck, and he immediately opens his mouth in kind admonishment. “Sorry, habit,” she corrects before he can. “Thank you, FP.”

“Yes, thank you,” Sabrina echoes, seeming to want to follow her cue.

Once more, she’s seized by the similarity of Jughead to his father, the way he appears to physically swallow down a thought in suppressed amusement. “Happy to,” FP replies shortly, his eyes roving over onto his daughter, whose smile grows at once, something child-like, and deeply pleased.

“We should get going if I’m gonna drive you back, Dad,” JB says, and he nods, so Sabrina makes her goodbyes, as she lives only one T stop away. She kisses JB quickly on the lips in goodbye, says she’ll call her tomorrow, waves at them halfway down the block, and then disappears around a corner.

“I like her,” FP says, once she’s gone. It’s simply said, but heavy with meaning.

“Me too,” JB replies quietly, her eyes on the spot Sabrina had last been. And then they switch onto Jughead, sharing with him a look Betty’s only known from her own sister.

After a long moment of that, Jughead clears his throat, as if jumping into business mode as a defense from his own emotions. “Remember, we’re taking the truck to Vermont, so bring it to the house on tomorrow. And be there by _eight,_ JB, we have a decent drive to do. We’ll walk Burger before we go, but—”

“Vermont?” FP interjects, his forehead knotted. “You’re going to Vermont?”

“Christ, Dad,” Jughead chuckles, though he sounds just slightly exasperated. “Yeah, for our friend’s wedding. JB is house-and-dog-sitting for us. I told you all this.”

FP appears mildly embarrassed at this information, scratching behind his neck; Betty knows he’s trying. “Right, yeah. I must’ve forgot—or, I guess I didn’t realize that was this weekend.”

But Jughead just shakes his head and raises a hand as if to say _it’s fine,_ and FP’s smile relaxes. She remembers that morning, all those months ago, when they’d had JB over for coffee and bagels, and she’d reminded Jughead over and over that the structure had to be baby steps.

_He’ll mess up on little things sometimes, but better that than the big one._

_Baby steps,_ Betty thinks now, looking over at this family.

Jughead hugs his father goodbye for the night.

.

.

.

JB arrives just a hair after seven-thirty, a fact that cleanly shocks Jughead, as last night he’d spent fifteen minutes grumbling that his sister would make them late, given she has the internal clock of a tortoise.

But as Betty and Jughead turn back up their block, Burger tugging on his leash as he demands to investigate every other stray bush, they not only see the truck in the drive, but JB sitting on the front steps as well. She offers them one hand in the air in greeting and slides her phone back in her back pocket, getting to her feet.

“Aren’t you proud of me? I’m _early,”_ She says, hands on her hips as Betty unlocks the front door.

“Proud, and struck dumb,” Jughead mumbles in response, unlocking Burger’s collar from the leash. The dog immediately bolts inside the house, running around through the living room at his top speed, snorting loudly.

JB follows them inside, a heavy looking weekend bag over her shoulder, handing off the keys to the Ford to her brother. “So, last night went well,” she says, her hands shoved in the pockets of her leather jacket; much in the same way Jughead does, Betty notes. She glances over at the two of them. “Right?”

“Definitely,” Jughead says gently, throwing his arm over his sister’s shoulders. “Dad liked her. He said so, but even before then, I could tell.”

“He’s just so hard to read,” JB sighs. “But I think you’re right. I hope, anyway.”

“Of course he did,” Betty interjects. “And as the outsider here, it’s obvious that all he wants is for you two to be happy, and to be in your lives. He doesn’t care about anything else.”

JB lets out a long breath, her eyes scanning across Betty’s face. After seeming to accept that as true, she wraps her arms around Jughead and whispers something in his ear, one that makes him huff and blush, but Betty senses it’s meant to be a private conversation, and pulls away to finish preparing her suitcase.

After debating the merits of an extra scarf and eventually deciding to just call it, Betty rolls her and Jughead’s suitcases out of their room to find Jughead and JB still in a deep discussion that falls silent as soon as they spot her.

“So,” she says after an awkward pause. “Uh, Burger’s food is in the pantry, it’s labeled. Walk him twice a day—”

“Betty, chill, I got it. I’ve done this before, remember?” JB grins. “And you guys should get going.”

They all agree, and after making their goodbyes to both JB and Burger, they load up the truck with their bags and wedding gifts. Jughead spends a long moment running his hands over the wheel, his breath visible in the cold air of morning, even inside the truck.

“I missed this,” he says quietly, seemingly to the truck itself, and then passes Betty a small smile.

“Maybe we should give JB the Camaro. Trade her back for the truck,” Betty suggests, squeezing a hand that sits on the wheel.

Jughead releases another breath. “Maybe. We’ll talk about it later. For now—we have a wedding to get to,” he says, grinning.

He puts the key in, and unlocks the engine.

It roars to life in perfect song.

.

.

.

As they wind through Massachusetts and onto Vermont, Betty’s phone continues buzzing, as it has been all morning, largely exclusively from Kevin as he demands live updates on both her and Veronica’s estimated time of arrival because he needs rescuing from a cousin of Joaquin’s, who Kevin describes as _vaguely homophobic._

Veronica hasn’t responded in their group chat, meaning she’s probably still on her flight (and predictably, Jughead cracks a terrible joke about her being _en plein air_ when she relays the story of why her phone won’t stop vibrating), which just increases Kevin’s desperation for Betty to arrive.

However, by the time they cross state lines and pull up to the ornate white mansion Kevin and Joaquin have booked for the wedding, Kevin has stopped texting, having gotten swept up in further familial needs, so they decide to just check in and head up to their room until further instruction arrives, or until Archie and Veronica land, whichever comes first.

After unpacking, Jughead hangs up his suit in the closet and pulls the rolling door closed, grinning at her. “I’m going downstairs to the lobby to find a vending machine. Want me to break a couple twenties while I’m there? Get you some single bills?”

From her place on the bed, Betty looks up from her phone, taking in his expression, which appears much too pleased with himself for that to have been an innocent question. She levels him with a flat look. “Yes, for the dozen strippers we’re having for three people. Thank you, babe.”

He shrugs, but it belies the amused look on his face. “Hey, I was just trying to be helpful.”

“It’s Kevin,” Betty reminds him, pushing back on her palms, the duvet soft to the touch, pillowing underneath her hands. “He’s dramatic on the surface, but he’s the biggest homebody of us all. Knowing him, we’re just going to be drinking wine and playing board games.”

Jughead appears to consider this. “That actually sounds fun. More fun than the event Archie is forcing me to attend tonight, anyway. Room for me?”

“At Kevin’s bachelor party? Sorry, Juggie, you know it’s deep inner circle,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s just me, Kev, and Ronnie. But—you should go to Joaquin’s thing, it should be nice. And now that I think about it, you might actually even get along with his friends.”

He pulls a face. “Look, I like Joaquin, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Remember who you’re talking to.”

“No, seriously,” Betty says, getting up and meeting him by the closet. She smoothes her hands over his t-shirt. “They’re all quite your flavor of broody. Just wag a bone named Trotsky and see who bites. You’ll make friends, trust me.”

Jughead snorts, wrapping his arms around her waist. He has that look on his face that usually accompanies a deadpan self-deprecation, and follows it up with, “I don’t know, Betts. It’s a rare breed that hears my name and thinks I’m not a weirdo.”

“Juggie, one of Joaquin’s groomsmen is unironically, or—maybe it’s ironically, I don’t know—nicknamed _Sweet Pea._ They won’t blink at Jughead. And now you’re out of excuses, so you have to go.”

“Yeah, but only to catch up with Archie,” he sighs. “And for the record, it’s a little weird for my girlfriend to make play dates for me, you know.”

“Fine, fine.” She holds up her hands, untangling herself from Jughead’s grasp and moving back to her suitcase to finish unpacking. She shoots him a grin over her shoulder. “Just be sure to let me know when I’m right.”

And, seemingly despite himself, he laughs.

.

.

.

After she and Jughead have finished unpacking and he has returned from the lobby, laden with junk food from the vending machine, and she’s called and talked to both Kevin and Cheryl—who is driving up for the wedding tomorrow rather than staying in the venue—there’s a knock at their door.

Betty opens it to see Veronica wearing a heavy black fur stole and beaming widely at her—abstractly, she knows Archie is somewhere behind her, but now, all she can hear is the sound of their own shrieks and giggles as they embrace and bounce up and down in reunion.

As they sway back and forth with the force of their hug, Betty realizes Jughead has moved behind her, looking at Archie. The two of them share the same kind of fondly annoyed expression and then clasp together themselves, though it’s much briefer—and far less vocal.

“Good to see you, bro,” Archie says, patting Jughead on the back.

“Likewise, _bro,”_ Jughead echoes, lips twitching. Archie gives him a playful shove on the arm and pushes past him into their hotel room, immediately plopping down into a large armchair and blowing out a long breath. Jughead glances once more at Betty and Veronica, still hugging. “Do you think our girlfriends would like to be left alone?”

“Nice to see you too, Jughead,” Veronica drawls, separating from Betty and striding into the room like an Audrey at breakfast. “Ugh, what a flight. I forgot how _brutalist_ flying coach can be. They made me check my bag last minute, this child behind me kept kicking my seat—awful.”

“Ronnie, they made you check your bag because you brought like fifty pounds worth of clothing,” Archie says to the ceiling, his neck rolled against the back of the chair.

Veronica grins without an inch of shame. “I may have gotten a little over eager in planning for incrementally autumnal weather. It’s literally eighty degrees in Los Angeles right now—they never warn you about Indian summer.”

“Pretty sure that was implied. It’s California,” Jughead deadpans, himself dropping onto the bed.

But Veronica just waves a dismissive hand. “Well, I want to enjoy it while we’re here. What do you say the four of us check in with Kevin, and then go for a walk?”

“Kevin’s busy with his aunts right now,” Betty interjects, having spoken to him only half an hour ago. “Since they’re not doing a rehearsal dinner, he promised his family they could have a big lunch. He said for us to come to his room around eight for his bachelor party, and to track down lots of pizza to bring.”

“Fair enough,” Veronica replies, her lips pursed upwards. “Shall we stroll amongst the leafs, then? My heart’s not averse to being beguiled.”

“Robert Frost,” Jughead says from across the room, nodding approvingly. “Apt reference.”

Veronica and Archie, already dressed for the weather outside, wait as Jughead and Betty gather their beanies, coats, and gloves—though he hasn’t worn the crown-shaped hat in quite a while, but he usually breaks it out when the cold snaps on, and today is one of those days.

The corner of Archie’s lip lifts as they close the room door behind them. “Haven’t seen that thing in a while,” he says, so quietly Betty almost misses it, as Veronica immediately loops their arms together and steers her to the front of their group. “Thought it was a thing of the past by now.”

Jughead’s fingers reach up and rub at the wool, almost instinctually. “Yeah, well, that’s the guarded secret about the past,” he replies, his voice equally low. “Turns out it never really leaves you. I’ve just been learning that doesn’t always have to be a bad thing.”

It tugs at the bird in her chest. Unable to help herself, even as Veronica rambles on about traffic patterns, Betty curls her neck back over her shoulder, shooting Jughead a soft, appreciative smile.

He’s already looking at her by the time she turns around.

He smiles back.

.

.

.

Around six, the boys split off for Joaquin’s party at some local bar, and the girls take the truck in search of pizza—the wedding may be held in a small town, but they’re like any other, and Betty is able to navigate the streets as if they were Riverdale’s, finding a place as soon as she pulls down the literally-named Main street.

After collecting about four boxes of pizza—Veronica complains it’s far too much for three people, but Betty knows Jughead will be hopefully awaiting their scraps and she might as well get him his own pie, given how cheap it is—they head back to the rented mansion where they’re staying and head right to the top floor, where Kevin is staying.

Clearly exhausted and relieved to see them, Kevin ushers them in and shuts the door quickly. They hungrily consume both pizza and what Kevin labels tales from the dark side, having had to sit through a conversation not only with some awful cousin of Joaquin’s but also the pestering from his own side of the family, already asking if they plan on having kids.

Kevin confirms what Betty suspected—all he wants is a low-key night with his two best friends, and they are content to watch a couple of episodes of trashy reality television (including, but not limited to, _The Bachelor)_ and drink from the wine Kevin has procured, catching up and feeling like old times.

Veronica splays herself onto the king bed, lying on her stomach as she flips through a magazine with one hand and serves herself pizza with the other. Her ankles crossed, Kevin beside her, his head propped up against the pillows, flipping through his phone. Music drifts gently out of a laptop, something offering of yesteryear.

Betty debates whether she wants just one more slice or whether to just grab the whole box—deciding on the latter, she scoops it up and joins her friends on the bed, settling the pizza box in the center of the three of them.

It reminds her furiously of high school, the three of them in a rotating bedroom, saying nothing or everything. A board game between them, or pizza like tonight’s, or occasionally a Ouija board from the one summer Kevin got deeply superstitious.

She stares at him now, under lit by the glow of his screen, his eyes jumping around as they attentively focus on whatever he’s reading.

It feels so much like high school, but he is getting married tomorrow.

She bites down on her lip.

At some point, Kevin realizes she’s looking at him and puts his phone down, a soft smile offered her way. “Something on your mind, Cooper? Or are we boring you?”

“Of course not,” Betty says, her shoulders relaxing. “I love this, just the three of us. I’m just...traveling through time. We haven’t gotten to do this in years. And it’s…just…it feels like ten minutes ago that we were in one of our bedrooms, hanging out, just like this. And it feels like that, even that now everything is so different. I’m really happy that we’re all pursuing our dreams, but I miss this. Us, all living in the same place.”

Veronica has closed her magazine now, her full attention on Betty. “Except,” she says pointedly, after a studying moment. “Now we’re actually _doing_ the things we talked about, rather than just talking about them. Even if it does have the unfortunate consequence of geographic constraints.”

“True,” Kevin says, nodding, his bottom lip extended thoughtfully. He leans back further into the pillows and glances at Betty once more. “I get what you mean, though. When Joaquin and I were talking about what we wanted to do for our bachelor parties, it didn’t even cross my mind to do a joint thing. I knew I just wanted one night with you guys. Like—I knew nostalgia should be the send off to change.”

Betty’s heart gives a firm tug, and she crawls across the bed to cuddle up against him, sighing. “Are you excited, though?”

The pause before his answer is one itself; she watches as the look blooms across his face, the petals in his cheeks. And then he turns his chin down to look at her. “Yeah.”

Veronica straightens out her arms in front of her so that they dangle slightly off the bed, her face pensive but not unsmiling. She seems to be chewing on a thought, something working and somewhat lost.

“I miss it too,” she says quietly, after a long pause. She glances over at the two of them quickly, and then off again, sucking in a breath. “All of it. You guys, my best gal and pal respectively—and being here now, the chill in the air, with all the trees looking like especially a JW Anderson pre-fall collection.”

Betty exchanges one quick look with Kevin. “I thought you were happy in LA.”

“Yes, well, for such a simple emotion, it’s inevitably hard to quantify,” Veronica replies, her eyes dancing. “Some days I love it. But then some other days I just look around and realize I’ve spent three hours alone in a car trying to drive twenty miles. Lately…I’ve been thinking I might move back after graduation. I mean, it would depend on where I got job offers, of course. But.”

“You think you might move back to Riverdale?” Kevin asks excitedly, even sitting up a little straighter.

“Down, boy,” she laughs, rolling onto her side, her head propped up by a hand. She lets out an airy sigh that only Veronica can manage to make sound weighted. “No, alas, I have concluded small town life is not for me. Perhaps I’ll face my demons in Manhattan, though I _had_ vowed never to return once I saw the way that world treated my family after…everything.”

“You might like living in Boston,” Betty suggests hopefully, though Veronica instinctively wrinkles her nose. “Seriously!”

“I know Archie misses it sometimes,” she replies, in an amused, yielding kind of voice. “But he’s also doing well in LA, career wise. He can go freelance again, but I just don’t know if he’s ready to leave. We have to talk about it.”

“You guys would figure it out. You’re so solid,” Betty says, reaching forward to squeeze Veronica’s hand.

Veronica returns her smile. “Speaking of. Much ado about heart eyes, Elizabeth Cooper?”

She can’t help the blush. “If that’s you asking about how things are with Jughead, they’re…good. Really good.”

“Of course they are,” Veronica says in a droll tone that says as much is obvious. “You two are so adorably domestic. You even have a dog together. Which, by the way, has done nothing but put an incessant yen for one into _my_ boyfriend’s head, so thank you for that. I told him Persian cat or nothing, but I don’t think it worked.”

“You should get a Labradoodle. That’s what Joaquin and I are planning for when we get back from the honeymoon. They’re hypoallergenic, very smart, etcetera,” Kevin inserts, quite knowingly. “Or you could get a Portuguese water dog. That’s the Obama’s breed of choice.”

“Well, we’re very happy with our mutt,” Betty says meaningfully, aware neither of them are being very tactful. “And there’s nothing quite like walking a dog in the park as the leafs are turning.”

“Oh my god, you two,” Veronica sighs, rolling her eyes but smiling. “We’re not getting any dogs and we’re certainly not moving yet, so you both need to put your fantasies for my life on the back burner—at least until June, at which point I will reevaluate how perceptive I am to bribery.”

Betty and Kevin trade glances, silently agreeing to drop it for now. And if she simultaneously attempts to telepathically communicate that they should later, after his honeymoon, work together on strategies to get their other best friend back on the east coast, so be it.

“I can work with that,” Kevin concedes out loud, rolling off the bed and dashing to his suitcase. “And enough with our angst. Since this is actually my bachelor party, we should have some fun. I got my hands on the newest tabletop RPG that is sweeping the nation; it’s called _The Dragon Lantern,_ and it is amazing. You guys are gonna love it.”

“Oh no,” Veronica whimpers, as he appears to pull several board games out of thin air. Betty can’t fully stifle her snicker; she’s never fully minded them, neither dismissive of them like Veronica nor passionate like Kevin.

He beams at Veronica, well aware of her opinion on the matter. “My party, so you can’t cry, even if you want to,” he says, in a somewhat singsong voice, moving the pizza box from the bed to replace it with the games.

She actually pouts, but then sits up, cross-legged, shaking her head and sighing as if steeling herself for bad news.

Betty exchanges a grin with Kevin, and he pats Veronica on the knee. “Remember, V, sometimes love is sacrifice.”

.

.

.

.

It’s not Betty’s first time at a wedding.

Not even her first time as part of one—her sister’s was an affair she sometimes wishes she could block out, with Polly at full emotional capacity, balancing getting married and being six months pregnant at the same time, all the squabbling of the newly bound families and Cheryl screaming at caterers for most of the memory.

But in spite of the chaos of that day, and in spite of it again now, having spent all morning trying to keep one of Kevin’s nosy aunts at bay and then facilitating an awkward-but-not-terrible conversation between Toni and Veronica, as current girlfriend and ex-girlfriend of Cheryl, respectively—as Betty pins a pink carnation onto Kevin’s white suit jacket and throws her arms around his neck as tears sting at her eyes, her heart feels so full at this moment that she can’t think straight.

Kevin sniffles, unable to stop smiling. “I’m getting married,” he says quietly.

“You’re getting married,” Betty echoes, swiping at an escaped teardrop along her cheek.

“Save your tears for later,” Veronica says warily from the vanity, looking at them through the mirror, though her own eyes are unmistakably watery as well.

She attempts to straighten her shoulders as she pins a flower to her own lapel; after much debate on whether or not she and Betty would wear dresses as Kevin’s quote-unquote _Best Maids,_ and then an additional struggle to find a color that worked for both Veronica and Betty’s skin tones, they all had settled on blush pink tailored suits with a high-waisted satin pant, quite to a likable effect.

(In turn of Joaquin’s side of the wedding party, it was decided Toni will be wearing a black suit—she’d also offered to wrangle the rest of the groomsmen into dresses, but that idea hadn’t seeded too deep a root.)

Betty and Kevin join Veronica, sitting at the mirror. The three of them stare at their reflections, all made up and dressed up, nearly ready for the ceremony to begin.

It somehow seems like the end of an era, and yet—not one at all.

It’s strange, Betty thinks, how hope and happiness can sometimes feel so very nearly sad, as if the presence of those emotions must also bring out the reminder of the change, the reflection, even when it’s for the best.

Kevin’s hand folds over Veronica’s shoulder, and she reaches back up to squeeze it. Betty leans her head against his arm.

“Don’t make me cry already,” Veronica says, a bit stutteringly, even as she begins to. She lets out a short, breathy laugh. “I just finished my make up.”

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.

.

Held under a bay of oaks of varying degrees of orange, yellow, and red, Betty walks down the aisle with Veronica just behind her, a bouquet of pansies, eucalyptus, and carnations in their hands. As she passes him, she makes brief eye contact with Jughead in his seat near the front, his expression pinched against emotion.

Neither one for full tradition, both Kevin and Joaquin are escorted down the aisle by their father and mother respectively, and then they join hands under the chuppah, brightly decorated with similarly warm-colored flowers and leafs.

The music swells and stops.

Kevin and Joaquin take each other’s hands, and Betty already thinks she’s about to burst into tears.

“We are joined here today,” the Rabbi begins after a rustling of chairs and hushed voices, “to bond together Joaquin DeSantos and Kevin Keller in celebration—a celebration of the union of love, and the many forms that it takes.

“Now, in my preparation for this wedding, I thought backwards on the relationship that Judaism has towards those many forms of loves, and came to the story of David and Jonathan, two men whose love and bond was so strong they are still famed within the pages of our scripture.”

He takes a long breath; he has a comforting, low voice, and the type that could be heard over any din. “David once said that he found grace in Jonathan’s eyes—a phrase so simple and beautiful it could only be love, as that’s what the emotion truly is.

“You know it is love because it is the absence of complication—but not of circumstance, not of fear. Not always. To overcome circumstance, to conquer that fear, to accept love for what it is as something to guide you, you must find grace in the people you care for.”

The Rabbi pauses once more for effect, and a smile appears behind his beard. “Now, I was reminded, before I began, to keep things, as they say…secular,” he says teasingly, shrugging comically and allowing for laughter from the audience.

“So I will leave Adonai for temple. But I speak of this passage because it is a remarkable bit of language, one that has offered a testament to a love literally older than the marking of time— _David found grace in Jonathan’s eyes._

“In religion, to find grace is to have belief. But in life, belief just has to mean love—in who you are, and in whom you choose to share yourself with. And that sentiment is timeless, and eternal. So, with that, we shall happily honor that love and wed these two men,” the Rabbi finishes.

She hears Kevin suck in a long breath as the Rabbi then launches into the official language, and Kevin and Joaquin begin repeating the lines, but Betty’s eyes are so filled with tears she can barely see out of them.

Unable to stop herself, she tears herself away from Kevin and Joaquin, and looks over to where Jughead is sitting. He meets her gaze at once, as if feeling her eyes on him before they even moved.

And she sees it—what was always there, the look they’ve long shared. A quiet sob escapes through her smile.

_Grace._

 

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After the vows are finished and the glass is broken underfoot, Kevin and Joaquin lift their joined hands into the air to an uproar of cheers and clapping. Even Joaquin, whose face is normally so withdrawn, is wide with a glowing smile.

The two married men leave first, followed by the wedding party—Toni winks at Betty as they cut down the aisle together, her hair now a brighter shade of pink, clearly to match the flowers. There’s a bit of logistical breaking of the moment as they are all shepherded off by the wedding photographer for the official photos.

As the audience filters back into the indoor venue where the dinner and party will be held, Kevin and Joaquin shake the hands of their respective husband’s parents, while the rest of the wedding party mills around. Toni and the rest of Joaquin’s normally scruffy-looking groomsmen look remarkably more filled with emotion than she’s ever seen them, which is somehow a relief that she’s not the only one on the verge of full on tears.

Jughead and Archie both throw them a couple of waves from the loose edge of the crowd, gesturing that they’ll be inside, and Veronica loops her arm through Betty’s once more, her head on her shoulder. She sniffs loudly. “That was beautiful,” she murmurs.

But Betty barely gets a chance to audibly agree before they’re swept off for make up retouches and then to play model for the photographer, who stages them all around the leafs for what feels like eternity before they’re released back to the party. Kevin and Joaquin stay behind for their private photos, while the rest of them wander back inside.

Betty and Veronica join Archie and Jughead at their table, though they’ll certainly have to move once the two grooms come back, as they’ll be sitting at the head alongside them. Betty practically drapes herself on Jughead’s lap, but he doesn’t complain, instead wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her closer. He seems lost for words, even as Archie and Veronica discuss the ceremony and the decorations, just content to hold her and watch the others talk.

After a moment, someone clears their throat behind them, and they all turn to see Cheryl and Toni smiling down at them. Betty is glad she insisted on getting the conversation between Toni and Veronica out of the way early on, even though Archie pointedly sits up straighter, not having actually met Cheryl yet, especially intimidating as she looks in her blood red, strapless gown.

She watches him squirm, her eyes cleanly tracing the movement, unblinking, before turning them onto Veronica. “V,” she says shortly, but not unkindly. A fact of a name, nothing more.

“C,” Veronica returns in the same, knowing tone, her lips turning upwards. “Good to see you. How are you doing?”

“Hi! I’m Archie,” he inserts at once, his chair loudly pushing back as he scrambles to his feet, in order to properly offer her his hand. He flushes, as if realizing how clumsy that looked—to anyone who didn’t know him better, it would read quite messily. Jughead snorts, and Cheryl passes Archie with a clean once over.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Cheryl drawls back, limply accepting the handshake. “Cheryl Blossom. And I’m quite well Veronica, thank you for asking. We just wanted to say hi, but let me know next time you’re in town—we’ll…” She trails off, and finally Betty sees a break in the visage, something soft, kind, and forgiving. “…Have brunch, or something.”

“That sounds lovely,” Veronica replies in a gentle voice. Her smile is just as so, and a touch thankful.

“Good,” Cheryl says, and then swivels towards Betty, holding out her hand expectantly. “Betty, dear. I promised your mother and sister we’d take photos together.”

“Of course,” Betty smiles, brushing off her satin dress pants and sliding off of Jughead’s lap. “Don’t go far, we should take some pictures too,” she adds to him.

But he shrugs, joining her in standing. “I can take them. I dabbled in high school photography, you know.”

Toni scoffs, holding up a rather fancy looking camera that Betty somehow hadn’t noticed around her neck, blending in against her black suit. “I think I got it under control, Ansel Adams.”

It almost sounds rude, but it’s a tonal language that Jughead clearly speaks, because he smirks and holds up his hands. “Roger that,” he says, sinking back in his seat, eyes dancing. “Just come get me when you want to parade me around on your arm.”

Cheryl guides Betty over to a corner, and together they try out a couple of poses—Cheryl eventually acquiesces to one silly one after much prodding from Betty and Toni, even if all she does is stick out her tongue.

“You do have to come home soon, you know,” Cheryl says through a smile as Toni snaps another photo, both of their hands on her hip in pose. “Alice is selling the house.”

Betty looks up and over, blinking. Toni lowers the camera. “She is? As of when?”

“As of last week. You know your mother—she probably wasn’t going to tell you until it was already done and time for you to move the rest of your things out,” Cheryl replies, rolling her eyes. “Polly asked me to pass the secret along.”

“I knew she was thinking about it. Vaguely,” Betty sighs, unsure how to feel. “I guess I just…well—alright, that seems like the right choice.”

Cheryl frowns, not buying Betty’s stammering. “Are you okay?”

She takes a moment to consider that. _Is_ she okay with that? Selling her childhood house, and with it, all the memories made within the walls?

Or—isn’t that what she did with the garage, anyway? How could she judge that choice?

“Yeah, I think I’m okay,” Betty says, and although Cheryl appears to scan her face for a lie, she accepts it.

“They miss you, you know. Polly, the twins, your mother,” Cheryl adds, after the moment breaks. “And you haven’t been back since last Easter, so, you should visit, regardless of the house. Take a break from domestic bliss and come visit your occasionally dysfunctional family. Even Jason says he misses you now and then.”

“But not you? You don’t miss me, even a little bit?” Betty replies, tilting her head at her sister-in-law and smiling broadly.

Cheryl’s eyes flutter with another roll, as if attempting to hold onto the icy expression she is normally so perfected in, but then she smiles. “A little bit,” she allows.

Betty beams, squeezing her arms. “You should come for a visit too, to Boston. You and Toni. We have a guest room, and everything.”

“To be considered,” Cheryl replies, which is certainly doublespeak for a yes. “Now, you should take some photos with that upright ruffian before everyone gets swept off to their seats.”

Agreeing, Betty gathers Jughead, and he indulges her in a couple of shots by Toni. “You look beautiful, by the way. I didn’t get a chance to say it yet,” he whispers, kissing her cheek to the sound of a shutter. Joaquin and Kevin should be back any minute, which brings the part of the ceremony she’s been trying not to think about.

“I’m nervous,” she whispers back. “About my speech.”

“Don’t be, you’ve practiced. Or, I assume you have, since you haven’t let me hear any of it,” he says, grinning toothily at her, his hand wrapped firmly around her waist. It feels steady, just what she needs.

She lays her head against his neck, and Toni snaps one last photo, as Kevin and Joaquin are now returning and they are all asked to find their assigned seats. “Those are so cute they activate my gag reflex,” she says, smirking. “I’ll email you the photos later.”

Betty watches him go for a moment, and then heads up to the main table with Veronica and Toni. There’s a couple minutes of milling voices, as loud as a stalling engine, as waiters appear to fill glasses of champagne and place bottles of wine on the tables.

Then, a tapping at glass, and Kevin’s father stands up, first to thank the guests for attending, and to the Rabbi for his words. His speech is lovely—a woven tale of Kevin in youth, his determination on his goals, all represented by his choices in career and in love. Next is Joaquin’s mother, whose speech mirrors much of the same, but speaks of Joaquin’s heart and desire to help people in spite of when it can hurt himself.

And then—it’s Betty’s turn.

She stands up, her chair making a light scooting noise, and takes the microphone from Joaquin’s mother. She catches Jughead’s eye at the table across from her, and takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Hi everyone, I’m Betty, one of Kevin’s Best Maids. So…I don’t know who of you was at Kevin’s bar mitzvah, but for those of you who weren’t, I’ll set the stage,” she says, grinning. “The year was 2006, and the theme was _Casablanca._ Which, for those of you who know Kevin well, shouldn’t really be a surprise.”

She pauses as about half the audience laughs lightly. Kevin had not only put on a high school production of said movie, he’d also jostled the theme into not one, but two student-council-run dances by sheer persistence alone.

“Kevin’s torah portion was about being true to oneself in the face of fear, and it was a such wonderful ceremony. And then, when he was finished with the Hebrew, he stepped out from beyond the podium. In front of his peers, his friends, and all of his family, he came out. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and the bravest. But…that’s just Kevin.”

Betty pivots, bringing the microphone away from her lips briefly to smile down at Kevin, who has one hand slung over the back of Joaquin’s chair, his face happily wrinkled with the precursor of tears. She turns back to face the crowd.

“He’s always been the most honest person I know. Blunt, really, sometimes to a fault,” she adds, and the audience once more chuckles. “But now—now I understand that Kevin’s honesty comes from bravery, and really in spite of everything. To be himself, to go after what he wanted, no matter the struggle he faced. I mean, I don’t know how many out gay, married, Jewish politicians you know, but I can’t think of that many. And Kev wants to do it anyway.”

She takes a breath. “Kevin’s bravery has always been the quality I admired most about him, but it became a gift he passed to me at a time when I needed it most. See, I was afraid to reach out and take what I wanted, to allow myself to love or be loved, and Kevin helped me realize I had to tell the truth; to be honest not just with my partner, but with myself. To not settle for what I thought I was going to get, but rather to admit out loud what it was that I really wanted.”

From across the table, Jughead’s lips are pressed together in what she knows is his fondest, most overcome smile. A rare thing, she wants to appreciate the look on his face; she holds his gaze for a moment before flicking her eyes back through the room.

“And I understood because my now-boyfriend had told me something quite similar not long before that. He’d said that honesty and bravery were the same thing. So—when Kevin told me that I needed to be honest, I realized, what I needed was to be brave. And I’m so grateful for that moment, and that push he gave me, because the kind of love that has been in my life since has meant everything to me.”

She watches Jughead wipe quickly at his cheek, so fast she almost misses it.

“So if there’s one lesson to take away from Kevin and Joaquin, it’s not just the faith to be unfailingly brave, but to be honest with your feelings and trust in them. Thank you, Kevin, for always being my rock. A very honest, very sharp rock. I love you,” she says, turning to him. He lets out a breath that is halfway crying, his eyes welled up.

“So please join me in raising your glasses,” she says, pausing to allow the guests to lift up their flutes of champagne. She meets Jughead’s eye once more, and he holds it true. “To Kevin, the bravest man I know, and Joaquin, the man who has made him so happy. I wish you both every joy. And I can’t wait until you’re our president one day, Kev,” she adds, laughing and taking a sip of her champagne. The audience mimics the movement and drink from their glasses, then clapping roundly.

Next to her, Veronica is furiously patting at her eyes, trying to preserve her make up, but as Betty sits down, she bursts into tears, wrapping her arms around Betty before taking the microphone and standing up. She taps at her eyes. “I wish I didn’t have to follow that,” Veronica says into the speaker, summoning a pointed tone. The audience laughs.

But Veronica’s speech is just as lovely, telling the story of how she came to know Kevin the summer she moved from New York, after being so unceremoniously ousted from society due to her family’s business scandals. How Kevin was the first person she met who was truly honest with her, and how refreshing it was, and how living with that kind of truth is so rare, and what makes him the man he is.

By the time the microphone goes back to Toni for the final speech and Veronica has sunk back in her seat, Betty’s heart is so full, she feels as though she’s about to leave her own body. Veronica scoots her chair as close as possible to Betty in order to rest her head on her shoulders, and Kevin reaches over and squeezes their hands, his eyes milky.

“I love you guys,” he whispers.

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.

.

After everyone has eaten and the first dance has been shared, the floor opens up, and the music switches to—as per Kevin’s demand—ABBA. Betty decides disco is a siren’s song, because half the room gets up and begins to dance. The lights switch from warm yellow to purple and blue, and then onto red, a breath between each color.

“Let’s grab our boys,” Veronica says on a note of impishness, leading Betty back towards their table, where the two of them watch them approach. Archie gets out without protestation; in fact, he looks downright pleased, sweeping Veronica quickly onto the dance floor.

 _Her_ boyfriend, on the other hand. 

“I knew death would come for me,” Jughead sighs, allowing himself to be dragged out his seat. “We need to keep an eye on Archie, I’m genuinely worried he’ll request Billy Joel this time,” he adds lowly, his hands immediately finding purchase on her hips. “I’ve seen what playing _Piano Man_ does to a room. It’s dangerous.”

Betty giggles. “What, everyone’s going to start holding onto each other’s shoulders and swaying, screaming along at the top of their lungs?”

“You’ve been living in Boston long enough, I see,” he snorts, and the music changes, to something smoother and more swelling, a song that Betty doesn’t recognize right away. It sounds familiar, like perhaps one she knew sung by a different voice.

For a moment, it feels like a middle school dance, that awkward moment when a slow song comes on and one’s not sure what to do with their partner. But Jughead immediately steps closer, his hands tightening around her, and her arms move to his shoulders.

“Your speech was great, by the way,” he says quietly. “I loved it.”

“Did I make you cry?” She teases, but his smile is small, and her answer, as if she hadn’t seen him wiping at his cheeks. Betty drops her lilting tone, and the dance floor lights turns pink. “It was all true.”

“I know,” he murmurs. He chews on the inside of his cheek, a thought working across his face. And then, in a low, anxious tone, he asks, “Is this something you want?”

She blinks, unsure what that could mean. He must read that on her face, because he is quick to clarify. _“This,”_ he says meaningfully, his eyes sweeping over the room. “A wedding.”

Betty nearly stops dancing altogether, her feet feeling suddenly weighted, staring at him. “Are you proposing?”

He laughs, but it’s a nervous sound. “Not at the moment,” he says, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have brought this up right now. But JB got in my head right before we left, saying I should buck up—well, and seeing this, and how happy everyone is...”

Jughead swallows, and seems to be struggling to hold her gaze, but manages to. “I wrote a happy ending last year,” he says. “And I didn’t expect to. I didn’t think it was ever…realistic. But that book, Betts—it’s _us,_ and that’s what I want us to have.”

His voice breaks a little against the emotion, and once more today, Betty’s heart feels about to burst out of the seams. “But we’ve done a lot of things out of order. And we haven’t ever really talked about…”

“Hey,” she murmur meaningfully, one of her hands leaving his shoulder to cup his jaw. “I _like_ that we do things out of order. My whole life I was raised to stay on path, to get on the right track, but—doing things when they feel right and instead when I’m told that I should, it’s…made my choices my own.”

He nods, leaning into her hand. Betty takes a breath. “So…yes. It’s something I want,” she says quietly.

 _Lonely rivers flows to the sea,_ the song hums across the room, the lights a wash of pink and yellow and rolling over them.

She watches his Adam’s apple bob forcefully before he leans in to kiss her; it’s both familiar a kiss and something newer, certainly longer, his lips held against hers for as long as it takes for the air to leave his lungs. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too,” she whispers back, and lays her head against his chest.

The music is still crooning.

_Lonely rivers sigh, wait for me, I’ll be coming home, wait for me._

She finally recognizes the song.

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.

**APRIL**

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.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want me to come with you?” Jughead asks, his hands in the pockets of her coat as he presses her up against old, mint green Ford truck. It’s spring now, but the air is still damp with late chill, their breath lightly fogging between them. “I’ve got all that manly inclination to lift heavy things.”

“Ha, ha,” she drawls, her arms around his neck. “No, you should stay. There’s not much to carry, you have a prologue and pitch to write, and besides…I think this is something I should do on my own, just with my mom and my sister. You know—one last time.”

“It’s not the last time,” he says quietly, rubbing his knuckles and thumb down the side of her face.

“In that house, it is,” Betty replies, sighing. He tilts his head at her. “It’s okay, though. I’m ready.”

“Alright,” he says, pulling his hands out of her pockets and dropping her a final kiss on the lips. “Drive safe. Let me know when you get in so I don’t think you’ve been run off the road in some sudden torrential downpour.”

“So morbid,” she giggles, unweaving her arms around him and opens up the truck door, sliding in.

He stands in the drive until she turns out of sight.

.

.

.

To be fair, she has been back home since moving to Boston—she’s still been coming for Easters and Christmases and then for Kevin’s engagement party. She’d also checked up on the garage with the Chisholm’s the first and last time, and had been relieved that what she’d felt was _still_ relief, rather than any potential latent guilt.

So yes, she’s been back.

But she knows it hasn’t ever really felt that way, one foot always already out the door, instinctually, out of some kind of subconscious fear that her family would lure her back in, make her feel like she had to stay again.

And, to their credit, they haven’t—they’ve all been remarkably understanding of her moving on, even her mother, white-knuckled as she is about her children. And last Easter, Polly had said something to the effect of always knowing Betty’s time in Riverdale was only delaying the inevitable, but she just hadn’t wanted to see it that way.

Betty doesn’t know what to expects to feel as she pulls down her childhood neighborhood, a street she’s known well all times of the year, backlit by the late glow of summer, gnats and fireflies at the corners.

She’s seen this street damp with rain and fallen leafs, rushed with red and orange. She’s seen this street padded with white, powdery snow, frigid in her lungs but warm inside. And she sees it now, as the dappled sunlight stretches from leaf to brick, the time of year that buzzes with breath and flowers still invisible.

It’s her home, and—yet.

She pulls up to the house on Elm with the red door, already feeling like it belongs to someone else. A wooden for sale sign with a SOLD label slapped over it sits in the yard, blinking back at her.

The air is chilled with imminent spring rain, and the grass already greener, even on this side. 

Polly’s car is already in the drive, as is a hefty moving van, parked alongside the street in front of the house. Alice is outside by the van, talking furiously with a man with a clipboard, and sharply gestures for Betty to go inside.

The living room is empty, already cleared out of the armchairs and couches—boxes labeled PHOTOS and CHINA are stacked in the corner where they used to keep the Christmas tree.

The kitchen table and chairs, the very ones where she and Jughead played an early, dangerous, domestic game remain untouched, but a large roll of bubble wrap leans up against it, waiting.

On top of the dark wood lays a framed family photo, one from when she was a little girl. She and Polly grin widely at the camera, their hair in pigtails, her father and mother guarding over them. It’s a photo she hasn’t seen in a long time; she thinks it might’ve lived in her father’s study.

Betty hears creaking on the second floor, so she leaves the photo and follows the sound upstairs, lingering along the stairwell, all the pictures already taken down, a phantom of dust all that’s left behind.

Polly is in her old bedroom, sitting on the bed, both of her hands curled around the edge, staring out the window. Her neck turns as soon as Betty enters the room, and she immediately crosses the room for a backbreaking hug.

“I know this is the right thing for Mom, but it sucks,” she whispers, sounding so much like the childhood version of herself, the one Betty truly always thinks of her as.

“It’s okay, Pol. Memories don’t just live in walls,” Betty says quietly, her chin resting on her sister’s shoulder. “This house is just as much a ghost too. It was time.”

Polly sniffs and pulls back, wiping at her nose. “Yeah,” she murmurs, nodding. “The whole thing got messed up, though. Mom’s pissed—the movers aren’t supposed to come till tomorrow, after you and I have packed up our stuff. She’s down there yelling at them now.”

“I saw the gist of that outside. Hell hath no fury,” Betty mumbles, widening her eyes at her sister, who giggles.

Polly releases a lungful of air, casting her eyes over her white wicker furniture set and Laura Ashley bedspread. “I don’t know what to do with most of this stuff. I guess Rose and Arthur might like some of it—I took most of my favorite things years ago. But it feels too strange, donating it right now. Feels wrong. Like, we’re already getting rid of the house, you know?”

“Just box it up,” Betty advises, understanding. “And when you feel ready, go through it. You have the space to store it, so decide what you want later, or let the kids go through it.”

Polly nods again. “That’s a good idea. What about you? What are you taking?”

Betty laughs. “No idea. I promised Jughead I wouldn’t come home with any porcelain doll collection, but like you said, I already took most of the things I really cared about when I moved. I’m gonna go take inventory, though,” she says, squeezing her sister’s arm and heading for her own old bedroom.

The room already feels liminal, most of her old magazine clippings and childhood photos long taken down, and the bed and vanity already cleared out, both of which she took to Boston. There’s a stack of cardboard boxes propped against a wall, waiting for her.

It’s a strange, removed kind of feeling, even if this is the room where she and Jughead first had sex, probably where she fell in love with him. The room she did homework in. The room she and Kevin and Veronica talked about losing their virginities in. The room they played board games in. The room she escaped to when she was small and shy.

The room with the pink flowers in the walls, pretty ones which offered her so much comfort, and so much anger. But looking at them now, she doesn’t feel any of that.

Betty then walks over to the closet and runs her fingers along the hangers. Only a few things remain; the silvery dress she wore to senior prom, the shoes she wore to her father’s funeral, mud still visible from the wet earth that day, a couple of scarves, shirts she’ll never wear again.

Betty sighs, and takes her prom dress down, laying it gently over the desk. There’s no logical reason to keep it—she’s not even sure it’d still fit her, but like Polly said, it feels wrong to get rid of it right now.

She makes up a couple of boxes and labels them KEEP and TOSS, sharply reminded of the time she helped JB move; how she then hadn’t expected to be doing that herself any time soon. Taking the rest of the things out of the closet and putting them in the donation box, she moves over to the corner of the room, where her old dress mannequin sits.

It’s been a while since she’s made any of her own clothes, but if she’s keeping her prom dress, she might as well keep the mannequin she made it on. It might be nice, to get back into sewing, she decides. She moves it over to the desk, and then notices a couple of photographs still pinned up against the pink wallpaper. They’re all of a teenage version of her, Kevin, and Veronica, mugging cheesily for the camera.

She grins and takes them down, adding them to her keep pile.

After a while of this, Betty decides to move the keep boxes downstairs by the front door, so she can put them easily in the truck later on. Her mother had instructed her to leave any donation boxes in the rooms they came from, that the movers will deal with them later.

She finds Alice downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table, her fingers rapping against the surface and staring off at nothing in particular. She smiles when she sees Betty, and however pensive her mother may have looked uninterrupted, the look on her face now assures Betty once more that this is the right choice.

Betty puts down the box and joins her at the table. “Almost done,” she says, sighing.

“Good,” Alice says. She raises an eyebrow. “You know, you seem to be taking this a lot better than Polly is.”

“I just know it’s time,” Betty says, after a moment of gathering her thoughts. “I’m at peace with it. But I think Polly…she hasn’t stayed here in years. She’s removed from it, but she liked that it was always here. We’re the ones who had to live with it.”

Alice hums, and stares down at a manicured finger as it traces along the dining table.

And then she looks up, any trace of contemplation wiped off her face; all business, but forced so. “Is there anything you want? Furniture? I’m taking the couches and chairs and kitchenwares, but the new house is much smaller. I’m selling most of everything else.”

Betty blinks around the room—what would she really want? As she told her sister, she’s already taken most of everything. She has nearly everything she needs back in Boston; she’d been so set on making new memories with new furniture, she hadn’t expected to take anything other than a couple of boxes.

But then her mother’s fingers clack against the table once more, and with that, she realizes it.

“The table,” Betty says suddenly, realizing there is one memory she wants to take with her. Alice looks surprised. “I want this table. And the chairs.”

“It’s big,” Alice says, after a moment, clearly confused as to why Betty would want this, of all things. “Do you have room for all that in that truck of yours?”

“I think so. I’m not taking much else,” she replies, and although her mother is still studying across Betty’s face, eventually she does nod.

“I did want you to have this, though,” Alice says, reaching across the table for the framed family photo she had noticed earlier, holding it out to her daughter. “Polly already has most of our photos. But you should have at least one, of the four of us.”

Betty takes it and stares at it once more, meeting the blue eyes of her father. It doesn’t sting. She holds it in her lap, and then rests it against her stomach.

Alice releases a short sound, a half-sigh, and fights down a watery smile. Betty nods. “Thanks, Mom.”

.

.

.

Betty debates driving back late that night, but after much prodding from her family and once it starts raining, she decides to spend the night at Polly’s.

She shoots Jughead a text updating him to this and a photo of her old doll collection that she’d found already boxed up in the attic, one which has the intended effect of him breaking his own rules on grammar—he sends a furious _no_ accompanied by about a dozen exclamation marks—but seems to figure out she’s kidding after she sends a couple smiley faces back.

A few minutes later, he sends her a selfie of himself and Burger, captioned with a _we miss you_ that has her smiling at her phone for a full five minutes before her sister waves a hand in front of her face.

Her mother and Cheryl and Toni come over to the Blossoms for dinner, and she discusses potential dates for upcoming visits with the three of them—though quite separately, Cheryl privately emphasizes later—and once they leave, she has a glass of wine with her still teary-eyed sister, who still seems to be processing today’s earlier packing.

Afterwards, Jason gives her a tour of his new library wing, and tells her to pick out a couple of books to take, which she doesn’t quite protest, as she knows Jughead would bemoan such a missed opportunity.

She then plays a round of mad libs with her niece and nephew before announcing she should head to bed, to much protestation from the twins, who were hoping their aunt’s presence would mean they get to stay up later.

Betty makes her apologies, but insists on calling it a night, so that she can get a early start on the drive back tomorrow morning.

This house is so big, she can’t hear the rain on the roof.

She’s ready to go home.

.

.

.

Betty doesn’t know her new street as well as her old one.

When she pulls onto the tree-lined block in her current neighborhood, there are no flashes of summers playing soccer in the road with her father. There’s no memory of walking home from school with Kevin and Veronica. No making snowmen with her sister, her mother coming out with hot chocolate.

But she does think of walking her dog last autumn, the fallen leafs crunching underfoot and Burger rushing to play in a pile of them, making a mess halfway down the block. Jughead furiously apologizing to the neighbor who had just spent an hour raking them up, JB doubled over in laughter.

Sabrina, giving her a ride home after work, the engine still running, blurting out that she thinks she really likes Jughead’s sister and thinks it’s mutual and _fuck, would that be weird._

Archie and Veronica visiting and braiding her best friend’s hair while their boyfriends bicker over what movie to watch. First snow piling up outside the door, Jughead grumbling to shovel it out, both their noses pink for nearly an hour afterwards. 

Reggie picking them up for a weekend at the beach house, honking from his ridiculous, windowless Jeep; FP ringing the doorbell the first time they had him over, how nervous Jughead had been leading up to it; her mother visiting and somehow only finding one feature she didn’t like about the house.

The day they painted the living room, her wearing nothing but her overalls and Jughead making nonstop quips about it. The day they moved in and quickly got to work on christening their new countertop.

The first night they spent in a house that felt theirs, and no one else’s.

She pulls the truck into the garage, deciding she’ll unload everything tomorrow. Climbing the steps to the back porch, she puts her key in the door, and quietly slips through. It’s still only afternoon, but there’s already a light on, visible at the end of the hallway.

Betty follows it and finds Jughead reading on the couch. He glances up as she comes in, the softest kind of look blooming long across his face.

“Hi,” he says, the book open on his lap.

She leans up against the wall, and lets out the breath she’s held since she left, smiling back at him. “Hi,” she repeats.

 

.

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**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening playlist: [need her love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8F3Rr-UqLU) by electric light orchestra, [the air that i breathe ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_wACCgCCjRc)by the hollies, [unchained melody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qiiyq2xrSI0) by the righteous brothers, [northern sky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y11X5WljnFA) by nick drake, and...[landslide](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K_PQ4fRQ5Kc), of course, as this whole fic is really an ode to that song. 
> 
> so...i don't even know where to start, writing this last a/n for this fic. 
> 
> i guess i'll begin with an apology---i am sorry this took so long, but i think i needed to wait until i felt ready to do this, as i knew this epilogue was going to be a lot on me emotionally, for so many reasons. 
> 
> this story represents so much to me, on a deeply personal level. not only is it the first multi-chapter story i've ever finished, a goal i honestly thought i could never make, it also has so much of me in it---so much of what i've gone through this year, and what i've wanted, gotten, and lost. 
> 
> i always wanted to write this story, though i didn't quite know what it would look like, except that it would be about love. 
> 
> the way that love heals, but does not do the work for you---that you need to be the one to use love as a tool, not as a bandaid. the way love manifests in so many different forms, to our friends, and our family, and the way that love can hurt and help us. 
> 
> i wanted to write a story without villains, where the only obstacle is one's own self, as that's how it is in life. 
> 
> i wanted to write a story where nothing happens and everything changes---constrained by time and undefined by it. 
> 
> and i am proud, honestly, really proud of what i did. which is hard for me to say as i struggle with imposter syndrome, and i have a lot of plans regarding my future as a writer, which is really in thanks to this story, and also to you all, for being supportive, for reading this, for commenting back to me. 
> 
> knowing i'm not just shouting some of my deepest vulnerabilities into a void has help keep me focused during an otherwise rough year. 
> 
> thank you to my beta, SRLoftis, who helped shape this story for what it was. and to sylwrites, edenofalltrades, and jeemyjamz, who helped keep me on a ledge for this last stretch of epilogue. and i did not intend to bring judaism heavily into it as i'm jewish but not religious, but it was a wedding, and i wanted to use the opportunity to talk openly about love. hopefully wasn't too much! 
> 
> i really hope you enjoyed heart rise above. please, please, please, please let me know what you thought---i can't tell you how much comments mean, but _especially_ for this last epilogue, which i've been slaving over for weeks---please. thank you all. 
> 
> xo


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